


We'll Ride (In the Gathering Storm)

by PanBoleyn



Series: The Iron Gauntlet and the Silk Glove [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:05:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 71,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/pseuds/PanBoleyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jon Arryn dies, King Robert rides for Winterfell as secrets brew on Dragonstone and in the Eyrie. Meanwhile, the last Targaryens gain not one but four sworn shields as Daenerys prepares to wed Khal Drogo, and three of them carry secrets behind their Valyrian eyes. </p><p>Or, A Game of Thrones in the Iron and Silk universe.</p><p>Chapter 10: In the wake of Robert's death and Ned's imprisonment, the Starks and Lannisters must decide their next moves, while elsewhere in Westeros, a princess moves to secure her future and a child's name declares her true bloodline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Young Dragons

Aegon barely remembers Pentos, if truth be told. He spent the first five years of his life in Magister Illyrio’s manse, but that is just the thing. He spent those years all but cloistered with the magister and his wife Serra, the woman who pretended to be a courtesan from Lys but who Aegon knows now was Lemore’s sister, a d’Altari like Lemore and the twins.

Like Aegon’s own maternal grandfather.

He pushes the thoughts of d’Altaris, of how three lines of dragon blood converge in his veins (and his sister’s, once) aside to study Pentos, this city he doesn’t recall. Daeron and Daemon are here with him as always, as curious as he. But their curiosity is that of boys who have known nothing but Morosh, the road from Morosh to the Rhoyne, and the Rhoyne itself from the Shy Maid.

Aegon knows more than that, from when he was required to live in towns along the Rhoyne and learn the work of craftsmen and merchants, of fisherfolk and even farmers. But not much more. Still, for him Pentos is a fog of distant memory, the first home he ever knew. He remembers hanging half out the window of his bedchamber, looking out at the city and longing to explore. That, at least, has not changed. It is the same feeling he has each time the Shy Maid passes close to Volantis, though never did any of them go to the great city. He has never even seen Lorath or Morosh, those cities his grandfather’s kin call home. He has never seen Braavos, though that is where his uncle Viserys and his aunt Daenerys lived for eight years while he was hidden first here and then on a poleboat.

He can see none of those, he hasn’t the time. But Pentos… The little boy in him wants to wander, to learn this place he used to stare out at with longing. But the prince in him knows that he cannot, for he has a duty here. Viserys is marrying Daenerys off to a Dothraki khal, the first step in a plan by Illyrio and Varys the Spider, the spymaster eunuch who saw Aegon spirited away from the Red Keep only weeks before his mother, sister, and the baby who replaced him were murdered by Lannister men.

Lemore has mentioned Varys, briefly; Aegon suspects there’s more to it all, that somehow Varys too is connected through more than just his old friendship with Illyrio, but he can’t prove it. So he tries not to think about it.

“Not having second thoughts, are you?” Daemon asks, with his usual teasing smile. Daemon is always ready with a jape or a smile, easily the most light-hearted of the three of them. Aegon shakes his head, running a hand through his hair.

“Do you think I ought to have shaved it instead of keeping to the blue?” The blue ensures that his eyes won’t be taken for purple, but there’s Valyrian blood in all the Free Cities - the twins have purple eyes and their straight black hair doesn’t hide that fact, after all. “I mean, if we’re to ride with Dothraki…”

“After a marriage, the first thing a Dothraki _khal_ does is take his new bride to be seen by the crones, the _dosh khaleen_ ,” Daeron, ever solemn and sensible, says from Aegon’s other side, leaning on his saddlehorn. “They’ve a Western Market there, so if your dye starts to run low you ought to be able to replenish it. And then…”

Daeron trails off because in all honesty, none of them have completely thought this through, and they know it. Escaping from the Shy Maid hadn’t been easy, but they had done it, because Aegon is a man grown and he will be damned if he is to keep hiding on a poleboat while things are set in motion. He wants to know them, this uncle who would claim the Iron Throne, this aunt whose marriage is to give her brother an army.

In truth, Aegon is not entirely sure which of them comes first. Viserys is older, but Aegon’s father was the Prince of Dragonstone. Still… Haldon told him once that, technically, the kings had the right to name their own heirs and his grandfather King Aerys had named Viserys after the Trident. Of course, the twins and Lemore would argue that Viserys holds only one claim in blood, while Aegon holds three.

For now of course, none of it matters. Jon Storm is no Targaryen, merely the half-Essosi bastard son of the late Jon Connington. The best lies are ones that are easy to tell, and Griff has pretended to be his father for long years. Now, Aegon gives the man his name back, if nothing else. He will still play his son, gotten on a Tyroshi woman so as to explain the blue hair. Jon Storm and his friends Daron and Damon have come to find the last Targaryens, the true king and princess of Westeros. Jon to honor the family his father served, the twins because they’re his friends and for the chance at glory.

It’s not a bad story. It remains to be seen when and how they’ll be able to put it aside and tell Viserys and Daenerys the truth, but Aegon tells himself this is the best way to go about things. For all this time he’s been believed dead, and so he must plan how he is to reveal himself. For now, well, they befriended the young _dothrakan_ Rakharo while the Dothraki were in the city, and use that chance to arrive outside the walls today, the day Daenerys weds Khal Drogo.

They drift around the edge of the proceedings until, of all people, Viserys himself walks over, trailed by an older man in the dress of the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon doesn’t recognize the sigil, but he knows that the bear is a sigil. A Northern house, he thinks, but the name eludes him. “Who are you?” Aegon’s uncle demands, and there is something unsettling in his eyes, paler than Aegon’s own. Something…

Gods, he hopes his uncle is not mad as his grandfather became. Pushing the thought aside, he bows. “I am Ser Jon Storm, Your Majesty. My father was - you wouldn’t know the name, but he briefly served your royal father as Hand, before his error led to his exile. I had hoped I might make up for his failure by serving you and your lady sister.” He notices Illyrio noticing them, his face carefully blank, but he must realize it’s too late to intervene.

“Your father?” This not from Viserys but from the strange man.

“Yes, Jon Connington, once Hand to the King.”  
  


“Who died as a drunken, disgraced exile in Lys,” the man comments scornfully, and Aegon clenches his jaw. Jon is not his father in truth, but the masquerade had become true after a fashion. Jon Connington _is_ his father, the only one he has ever known, in all the ways that matter save blood. To hear him so slighted, especially knowing that the tale was spread so Jon could disappear to raise _him_ , is enough to make Aegon want to break the man’s jaw.

“And you were exiled for selling slaves, Mormont,” Viserys says, lilac eyes narrowing as he looks them over. “Why do you all have Targaryen eyes?”

Damn it all, Aegon thinks. He should have guessed that the ruse with his blue hair would be less effective when it’s just him and the twins, when facing someone who knows the sight of violet eyes quite well. Daeron is the one who explains, with quiet courtesy.

“We’re of old Valyrian stock, Your Majesty, my cousin Jon here, my brother Damon, and I. My name is Daron d’Altari,” he explains. “The d’Altaris are an old family in Lorath. My aunt Kenna was living in Lys when she met Jon Connington. After he died, her and the hedge knight sellsword Jon’s father hired to teach him knights’ ways came home to Lorath. We came with him to seek out the true ruler of his father’s homeland, because that is what family does.”

Wait, what? That’s not the story they’d planned to tell. It’s a bit too close to the truth, or mayhaps just close enough, Aegon can’t decide. But Viserys seems to be considering it. “If we prove to be false, Your Majesty, surely these fearless warriors of the Dothraki will make short work of us,” Daemon says with his usual careless daring.

“If you’re Lorathi, why is your hair that ridiculous color?” Mormont demands, eyes narrowed. Aegon shrugs.

“I lost a bet to Damon here, and now must keep my hair blue for at least half a year.”

This seems to amuse Viserys, and he questions them for the rest of the feast, about Lorath and Jon Connington and their intentions, and at the end of the wedding feast, he’s agreed to take them on as further sworn swords. Khal Drogo doesn’t seem to care one way or the other, likely well aware that three more swords are nothing should he wish to turn on his wife’s brother.

Of course, Illyrio can’t just let them go, and he catches Aegon by the arm. “Dear boy, this is madness, you cannot do this.” He seems almost frantic, and Aegon can’t understand why. What is going on here?

“I can and I will,” he says flatly. “If I am to be worthy of my name, I cannot simply sit back and let things happen. I will be part of them, Magister.”

“Prince Viserys will not give up his claim…”

Aegon forces himself to shrug. “We cannot know what my uncle will do when he finds out who I am. Perhaps I will have to agree to be his heir, who can say? But I will be with my family if they mean to take the Seven Kingdoms, I will not remain behind.”

“But they will not -” Illyrio cuts himself off, gritting his teeth. “The plan was for the Dothraki to meet with the Golden Company and for you to join them only then.” Aegon gets the distinct impression Illyrio meant something else, and for the first time he wonders if the magister’s role in all this, brought about by his d’Altari wife, allows for his plan to truly have room for Viserys and Daenerys.

What if his d’Altari cousins - excepting the twins, always, whom Aegon loves and trusts as brothers - don’t want any others of Aegon V’s line but himself to survive to press a claim? It is a chilling thought. And irrelevant, because if that is what they are seeking, Aegon won’t cooperate, and they need him. They have been in Lorath too long, too many have forgotten. For a true restoration to occur, they need someone who can claim descent from the line they scorn as that of a usurping prince.

They need him. And so it doesn’t matter if they don’t want his uncle and aunt. He does.

“Then having me there to help convince the khal to meet with the Golden Company only helps things along, Magister.” And Aegon walks away, knowing Illyrio can’t call him back without drawing attention to the fact that he knows Jon Connington’s bastard. Which would raise many questions Aegon is sure the magister does not want to answer.

_Not having second thoughts, are you?_ Daemon’s words play in Aegon’s mind as he rubs down his horse for the night. He is now, about his allies if not this plan, but really, it’s too late for such things, regardless of their focus.

  
All that is left is to play things out.


	2. The Kingsroad and Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The royal party in Winterfell and heading south.

“By the Lady,” is the first thing Joy says when she catches sight of Winterfell. Lady Baratheon (that would be Lady Margaery, not her goodmother Lady Ashara) laughs to Joy’s left, head tipped back.

“That does seem to sum it up, doesn’t it?” Margaery tilts her head back, considering. “Garlan, Willas, and Loras did say it was larger than any castle I’d seen, and so did Sansa. I remember how surprised she was that the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell. I just hope it’s as warm as they said it was,” she adds with a grimace, and Joy bites back a laugh.

“Casterly Rock is bigger, if we’re talking straight up and down,” she says, leaning on the pommel of her horse. “I’m not sure if Winterfell is more spread out - the Rock being built into the cliff makes it difficult to say.” She wonders if there is much underneath Winterfell, as there is at the Rock or at the Red Keep. Probably not; it doesn’t look as though they’d need the extra room. Crypts, yes, Jon’s mentioned them, but anything else?

She would ask him, of course, but Jon’s not with them. Technically, he is here escorting the Lady of Storm’s End as one of Lord Renly’s sworn men, and Joy as Jon’s wife is now one of Margaery’s companions. But King Robert sees the absence of both his brothers as an excuse to have his beloved foster-brother’s son to himself, and so Jon has found himself summoned to the king’s side more days than not. In his place, Robert sent Tyrek to guard Lady Margaery, and Joy’s cousin is currently teasing Lady Alla about the way she bounces in the saddle.

“Have you some fur-wrapped Northern suitor, Lady Alla?” Tyrek quips, and Alla turns a brilliant shade of red. Joy, about to point out that Alla could not have met one, suddenly remembers her wedding and how Alla was near-inseparable from, of all people, Jon’s sister Arya. Still, all she does is rein in her horse so she can poke Tyrek in the side.

“Do stop teasing Lady Alla, it’s not very chivalrous of you, Ser Tyrek,” Joy tells him with a toss of her hair, emphasizing his new title. King Robert had knighted Jon and Tyrek together, at the melee for the tourney celebrating Myrcella’s birthday, just before Jon Arryn died. Jon for winning, and Tyrek for using two shortswords to devastating effect, showing off his skill with both hands. (Tyrek’s exit from the melee had been an unfortunate backswing of another fighter’s mace, rather than any lack of skill on his part.)

As they ride through the town outside Winterfell - Jon told her it’s called simply the ‘winter town’ - Jon rides back to them, telling Tyrek he’s to go back to the king’s side in Jon’s place. “How on earth did you get him to let you loose?” Margaery asks with a look toward the head of their train, where Robert’s bellowing can be heard, though the words are indistinct. “I rather thought he’d decided to keep you. My lord husband would not have been impressed, I think.”

Jon shakes his head. “He’ll have my father now,” he points out, voice very dry. “And that’s how, actually - I suggested it might lead to trouble for my father with his lady wife to see me at the king’s side in a place of honor riding into Winterfell, since I am no Stark.”

Joy glances at him, saying quietly, “Would it have?”

Jon shrugs. “I don’t know. In all honesty, I think Lady Catelyn is less wary of me since Lyria married Robb, and since I took the Dayne name. But the idea was enough to get me back here, so I don’t exactly care one way or the other.” He looks away, at the towers of Winterfell growing ever closer, and an expression flits over his face that Joy can’t quite read, yet thinks she understands. Whenever she thinks of Lorath, or the little cottage on the cliffs outside Lannisport, or Casterly Rock, there’s a - a longing, but right alongside it a sense that going back, of truly being home there again, is impossible.

And with the Rock, she never was home at all, not really, not like the others, because her name was _Hill_.

And here, Jon’s name was _Snow_ , but the truth is, her Dayne husband is more Stark than he can ever help, and Joy won’t ask but she doesn’t think he’d want to help it. His sigil is the sigil of House Dayne with a stripe along the border to distinguish it from young Lord Ned’s, but the stripe is grey. _Stark_ grey. And there is Ghost, of course, ranging alongside Jon’s horse. Since they crossed the Neck there’s been something different in how Jon holds himself; in King’s Landing he smiles like his mother and the way he stands reminds her at different times of both the younger Baratheon brothers, but here…

Well, Joy has never met any Starks but Jon and Arya anyway, and she thought at the wedding that they had certain similarities, a tilt to the head, just… something. Besides looking so very similar, of course. But she wonders if the changes in Jon are his Stark side showing through years of southron training.

By the time they ride into the yard, delayed by Cersei’s ridiculous wheelhouse getting stuck in the gate, the king and Lord Stark have already vanished. Tyrek, slipping through the crush to them as Jon and Joy dismount, says in an undertone that they went to the crypts, and Cersei was not best pleased. That much, Joy could have guessed with a glance at the elder of Tywin’s golden twins; Cersei radiates coldness more glacial than the North itself, now in what must be late summer. ( _Must be_ ; this summer has lasted so very long. What that means for winter Joy does not know, but sometimes the idea makes the back of her neck prickle.)

Joffrey is sneeringly dismissive as usual, Myrcella and Tommen sweetly polite. The younger lady of Winterfell, Allyria Dayne Stark, bears a truly startling resemblance to her elder sister the Lady of Dragonstone even heavy with child as she is, and a tiny girl clinging to her hand must be Lyarra, Jon’s niece-cousin. As for the others… Robb Stark and Bran Stark, to Joy’s eyes, are near as Tully as their mother or Ser Edmure who occasionally attends court. Lord Robb, in fact, looks like nothing so much as an Edmure with longer hair. Rickon Stark, though, for all his hair is red as Robb’s or Bran’s or Sansa’s in far-away Highgarden, has a longer Stark face.

Arya breaks from the line sooner than courtesy would strictly allow, but Allyria has Myrcella occupied, so it’s not such a problem, perhaps. Joy doesn’t think Arya would care a bit, though, as she races across the yard to all but tackle Jon in her enthusiasm. Ghost, as though released by this, pads away from them then, and Arya says, “He’s probably going to the godswood; Mother said to bring the wolves there for today, at least. They’ll stay the night since we asked, but no longer.”

“Unless you chain them,” Tyrek says, earning himself a glare from Arya and and a frown from Jon. Quickly, he holds up his hands. “Apologies, I meant no offense, I only thought that, Jon’s Ghost is used to court, he’s been there since he was a pup, but the other wolves aren’t and couldn’t accidents happen?”

Arya rolls her eyes and turns to Alla, taking her by the hand and they’re off somewhere. Jon watches them with a fond smile for a moment, then turns to Tyrek. “They won’t attack, you know. I can see where you might think so, but our wolves are… They’re not tame, but they’re tied to us. They won’t attack except to defend us.”

Tied to them. Yes, that’s a word for it. After their wedding, the last night before returning to court, Joy had told Jon the truth about her family, about myths of cliff dragons and the real story behind them, and in return he’d told her about wolf dreams, moments sleeping and sometimes waking when he saw the world through Ghost’s eyes. It doesn’t make that much sense to Joy, but then - she has ancestors who rode dragons, who is she to say?

\---

Joffrey spent the entire trip north whining about how ridiculous this whole thing is, while Tommen complained incessantly of being kept in the wheelhouse, but for Myrcella, the entire progress was a delight. She is old enough now that she may ride some of the time, with Myrielle and Rosamund and Tyrek around her. Sometimes she even rides with Lady Margaery who is now her lady aunt - Uncle Renly’s wife tells the most wicked stories, while cousin Joy, Lady Alla, and Mistress Aislinn have a mischievous humor to match their mistress. Mother disapproves; of Margaery and Joy and probably Alla and Aislinn too, so to keep the peace Myrcella doesn’t join them too often. It’s the same when she rides with Uncle Tyrion, though at least then she can keep her cousins with her so Mother frowns a little less.

As far as Myrcella is concerned, she’s glad she gets to see much of what’s to the north, and would go all the way to the Wall if she could, like Uncle Tyrion intends to do. After all, soon she will be heading as far south as south goes; at least she will have seen more than King’s Landing, Casterly Rock, and Storm’s End before she does.

She wonders how Arya Stark, who will be going to Sunspear too, feels about it, or what Allyria Dayne Stark, who came north from Dorne, might have to say. Lady Allyria is sister to Myrcella’s other lady aunt, Lady Ashara of Dragonstone ,and so is aunt to Myrcella’s cousins Shireen and Arthur. Mayhaps she can prevail on that connection to ask?

But that will be later, Myrcella tells herself. For now she must be the smiling courteous princess, especially since Joffrey is being a beast as always and Mother is cold and unfriendly as ever. Myrcella understands, to an extent; she knows what an insult it is to Mother that Father took off to the crypts just as soon as he was able, to visit the grave of his dead love. But there are things that are expected of them, that’s what Septa Eglantine always tells her. And so Myrcella makes polite conversation with Lady Allyria and Lady Catelyn, while Mother walks on Uncle Jaime’s arm and says little. Joffrey hangs back with Sandor Clegane, making nasty little japes about every aspect of the castle and the Starks.

The rooms the royal family has been given are quite nice; Myrcella knows that, as is expected, Lord Stark’s own bedchamber has been given to her parents. He’ll stay with his wife, she assumes. Her own bedchamber is Lady Allyria’s, she suspects, from the decorations that look a lot like the ones Lady Ashara has in her solar. But Myrcella doesn’t care all that much; far more important is the hot bath brought up to her so she can wash off the grime of travel. Traveling is enjoyable enough, but it can get dirty, and it feels so good to be nice and clean again.

Rosa and Myri get her ready for the feast, and Myrcella joins her parents and Tommen in the small chamber off the great hall. She’s glad, for the moment, of her warm cape, but hopes the hall itself will be warm enough with hearthfires and people that she won’t need it. Dancing with a cape would just be tedious, and there are several people here with whom Myrcella can dance. Lord Robb is a married man, and so safe; there’s also Tommen (and Joffrey, though Myrcella won’t dance with him if she can help it), Father, Uncle Jaime, Ser Arys, and her cousins Lancel and Tyrek.

She could dance with her cousin Arthur too if he were here, but for some reason Uncle Stannis and his whole family went back to Dragonstone, which is why only Lady Margaery is here and not Uncle Renly. One of the Baratheon men had to remain in the capital. There’s something odd about all that, but Myrcella can’t put her finger on it. It’s probably just that Uncle Stannis is annoyed at Father shirking his duties, like he always is. Or he’s upset about not being named Hand, which is what Uncle Tyrion says.

Myrcella is led in on the arm of Lord Robb, while Joffrey walks with Lady Allyria, a mirror of Mother with Lord Stark and Father with Lady Stark. Tommen is escorting Lady Arya, though Lady Arya seems more interested in catching Jon Dayne’s eye where he’s sitting among the other courtiers. Bran and Rickon Stark follow them, then Benjen Stark of the Night’s Watch all in black, with Lady Margaery on his arm. Theon Greyjoy is the last of them, Lord Stark’s ward/hostage.

The food isn’t bad, plainer than Myrcella is used to having at court, but good for all that. They have black beer and summerwine, mead and cider, and Myrcella sticks to the cider, which seems to be the mildest drink on offer. Father, of course, drains goblets of wine and beer, Mother’s mouth tightening more as he gets ever drunker.

When the dancing starts, Myrcella ends up paired with Joffrey after all, and smiles through his pinching hands, knowing that to those watching they make a pretty, graceful picture. Then the music turns to louder, boisterous Northern tunes and cousin Tyrek pulls her into the thick of things with a laugh. Before she knows it she’s danced with Lord Robb and his brother Bran, with Tommen and Ser Arys and even Jon Dayne, tugged out among the dancers by Joy.

Mother looks even more displeased than before because of the dancing, but Myrcella wanted this to be her own adventure before she goes to Dorne to marry Prince Quentyn, so she doesn’t care that much.

\---

There’s so much to do, even more planning than there was to prepare for the King’s arrival. It’s true that all of them were meant to be leaving soon for Highgarden to attend Sansa’s wedding, but they were supposed to return after that. Now that Ned is to be Hand of the King, Catelyn finds herself faced with the task of preparing to leave Winterfell for court… indefinitely.

To take her sister’s place, some part of her thinks, and that sends a chill down her spine. Because if Lysa is right - and Catelyn thinks she is, because why would Lysa take such risk to write down her fears, even in their old secret language, if she wasn’t certain? If Lysa is right, then the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn, and while Ned becoming Hand is the only way he will be able to get to the truth of all this, it’s risky. They don’t know why, after nineteen years, the Lannisters would do something like this - if they wanted to get rid of Jon Arryn’s influence with Robert, why wait so long?

If Ned stumbles on whatever it was that made his foster father a target without knowing what it is…

But it’s the only way.

And in the meantime, Arya will be one of Princess Myrcella’s ladies; all to the good since they will be goodsisters, in time. And it, like Arya’s surprising friendship with Alla Tyrell, may refine Catelyn’s younger daughter at last. Oh, she has to acknowledge that Septa Jorality’s tactics of using Arya’s interest in combat to teach her discipline has done wonders; Arya is no longer near so wild as she was. And in Dorne her skill with staff and knife and that sword she won’t give details on (but Catelyn can guess who gave it to her) might go less amiss. But even so, being able to act more ladylike can’t harm her.

Rickon will join Prince Tommen’s household, even though he is younger than the prince; Bran is the same age as Tommen but Bran is already settled, set to go squire for Edmure at Riverrun after the wedding. Catelyn won’t deny that she wishes Bran were coming with them, but she had been reluctant to let Bran go all along. At least if he is at Riverrun and they at King’s Landing, he’ll be able to visit more easily. And she can use seeing her son as an excuse to go home for a little while.

Still, it’s not easy to leave Winterfell in the hands of Robb and his wife. Catelyn can make no real objections to Allyria; she’s courteous and a good mother, and fertile as well, but… Well, the truth is that Allyria likes Catelyn no more than Catelyn likes her; they are on terms of cool, quiet courtesy, which suits them both well enough. Little Lyarra is a darling, of course, and with luck the child Allyria is carrying will be a boy, but part of Catelyn wishes her granddaughter didn’t have Allyria’s black hair. She hopes the next child will be all Stark and Tully, or even have a look of whatever Dornish family Allyria’s father came from (Catelyn is given to understand that Allyria’s mother was Lady of Starfall in her own right) though she won’t say it aloud.

But it is still hard to see her place as Lady of Winterfell all but claimed by a girl who looks so much like Ashara Dayne would have in the days when she and Ned made plans to marry.

Strangely, the other ghost of Ned’s first love bothers her less than it once did. Allyria’s presence at Winterfell means the Daynes are tied to Catelyn’s son, less likely to challenge her grandchildren in the name of Ned’s first son, and so… Jon Dayne is easier to look at, somehow. He looks less like Ned than he once did, with his hair cropped short; and even his features now resemble Benjen most of all the Starks, much as she thinks her Rickon will grow to be a red-headed Brandon.

And there’s the story Ned told her after Robb wed Allyria and Ashara Baratheon showed up so unexpectedly, about Lyanna and Rhaegar’s daughter, and a promise he couldn’t keep. She understands better now why Ned felt he couldn’t leave his son as well as his niece. She would still prefer that he had, of course, but given all that her husband had lost in those days, it’s harder to hold it against him.

Besides, Jon Dayne has his mother’s name now, he’s sworn to Storm’s End, he has a Lannister bastard for a wife. A half-foreign Lannister bastard to boot; Catelyn doesn’t recognize the style of clothing Joy Dayne wears but she gets the idea that the girl is flaunting the fact that she’s only half Westerosi. The boy has a place of his own, and fewer ties to the North with each passing year. It makes it less likely that his line will ever even want to challenge her sons’.

She can’t like him. But she no longer seems to hate him, and he no longer seems wary of her.

And none of it really matters when Ned comes back from hunting with the king, lips thin with anger. “Robert intends that I ride south with his train,” he says without preamble, saying nothing more, and it takes Catelyn only a moment to realize what he is not saying.

“Sansa’s wedding… There won’t be time for you to travel over land to the capital, and then to Highgarden, by ship or by the roseroad,” she says, setting down the dress she had been holding, deciding whether she wanted to take it or leave it behind. “Does he not know about that?”

“Oh, he knows,” Ned says with a scowl. “He told me that the realm needs a Hand, and that Robb can take my place at Sansa’s wedding. I told him that Robb had to remain in Winterfell, and he said Bran could do it, he needs me in the capital. He said to invite Sansa and Lord Willas to come to court with you after, so that I could still see them. To him that’s a fair compromise.”

She had told Ned he could not defy the king, the night Lysa’s letter had come. Catelyn hates that because of that, she can’t object to this either. Because it’s all the same, isn’t it? If Ned delays going south, it’s a chance for someone to turn Robert’s mind against him, say he delays for reasons other than wanting to see Sansa wed.

She can’t object, so she says nothing at all.

\---

For the first few weeks all the Starks ride with the royal party, and Jon spends a good bit of that time with Arya, and sometimes Bran. Margaery says that her other men are enough to guard her and lets him go with a smile. Of course, Arya tends to ride with their group anyway, because when she’s not talking to Jon she’s engrossed in conversation with Lady Alla. That’s an odd friendship, Jon thinks, Alla who loves embroidery and weaving and singing with Arya, who for all that she’s learned composure is still rough-and-tumble, but it’s good to see Arya smiling.

It also keeps Arya away from Prince Joffrey, who had been inclined to mock Arya’s swordplay practice. Luckily, both Jon and Tyrek had been there at the time, calling out advice to Arya and her friend Mycah as they sparred with sticks, as well as Ghost and Nymeria. Tyrek had stepped in to offer the prince a chance to show the “silly children” how real swordplay was done, and Joffrey had slunk away.

Renly and Loras would have laughed themselves silly, and so would Mother and Arthur, Jon finds himself thinking, and again he has to wonder, what is happening? Stannis took his whole family off to Dragonstone without a word of explanation following Lord Arryn’s death, Lady Arryn took off just the same - and took Robin with her. That’s why Renly’s in the capital, representing the royal family because someone has to do it. But it’s not - there’s something wrong. Jon knows it, Renly knows it, Loras, Margaery, and Joy all suspect it.

Which is why he’s not surprised when, on the day all the Starks save Father turn for Seagard, Margaery gives him and Joy leave to remain with the royal party. Officially, it’s out of respect for Lady Stark’s sensibilities, but Jon and Joy actually were invited. According to the original plans, they would have come with Margaery’s party. “I’ll explain to Sansa that you were needed at court, to help your father,” Margaery tells him outside the inn that morning, voice low and intent. “But of course, I don’t know how much help Lord Stark needs. The real reason you’re going back is because Renly and Loras don’t have anyone left but you and me they can actually trust in the capital. Not now. And, well… Maybe you can get your father on their side. I know Renly doesn’t much like him, but he’s decent, and not one to play games. He’s already been heard to comment on Stannis’ absence, though.”

Jon knows that; two nights ago, the king had been in his cups and japing with Father about Jon himself, and the influence of Renly and Stannis on him. Part of his comments had been centered on his relief that Stannis had left court. “Probably sulking that I didn’t name him Hand instead of you,” the king had laughed in a rare moment of perceptiveness. Jon’s stepfather was insulted to not be chosen, Jon knew that (and he suspected his father would much have rathered to not be chosen, ironically enough) but he also knew insults wouldn’t make him neglect his duty. Father, who shared that trait with Lord Stannis, seems to be coming to a similar conclusion.

And there was Lord Arryn’s death… He’d died of illness, but in the wake of his funeral, his widow and son had left court in the dead of night, and then Jon’s Baratheon family had vanished almost as quickly. And his former squire, now Ser Hugh, has become skittish and distant. Jon knows Hugh well enough; the two of them, Devan, and Bryen Farring had spent a good many days dicing or talking outside the council chamber while the men they served ran the country. Jon imagines they’d have been joined by Ser Barristan’s squire, if he’d had one in the years since Jon came to court. Tyrek and Lancel had joined them on the rare occasions when, for whatever reason, the king chose to make an appearance.

“So I’m to play the go-between?” Jon asks with a wry smile. “That’ll be interesting.”

Margaery grins at him. “Oh, as though you won’t be able to. Something is wrong at court, we both know it all too well, Jon. If your father is the man he’s said to be, he’ll want to figure out what it is, he’ll think even that it’s his duty as Hand to do so. Renly is trying to figure it out already - especially as he thinks Stannis knows and didn’t tell him, so he’s a bit irritated.” That, they both know, is putting it mildly. Renly is really quite irritated that Stannis didn’t confide in him. “You can help both of them, if it comes to it.”

“Very well, my lady,” Jon says, switching to more formal words as Princess Myrcella and her ladies drift their way.

After the Starks, Margaery, and Alla had left, Joy slants a look at him. “Tell me, my lord husband,” she says in the teasing way she always has when addressing him so properly, “did Lady Baratheon task you with some court intrigue?”

“As though you don’t know,” Jon replies mildly enough.

“Oh, I can guess - so much is going on, so much change at court. And you linked to more than one side in it all. Pity you don’t like the game better.”

“And you’re not? Linked to more than one side, I mean.” Jon loves his wife, but sometimes he wonders. Joy is a Lannister by blood if not by name, as much as she is a d’Altari by blood or a Dayne by marriage. And while he trusts her, he does not trust her relatives. Tyrek, mayhaps, but never the others.

Joy shrugs. “I’m loyal to you, I’m loyal to Tyrek, and my Lorathi cousins to a lesser extent. I don’t wish any ill to Tyrion, my Aunt Genna and Uncle Kevan, or their families, or to the younger prince and princess. But that’s the extent of it. Jaime’s entertaining at times but too beholden to Cersei, and I’ve never much liked my golden queen of a cousin. Did Renly…”

“No,” Jon says honestly. Renly’s said nothing about being wary of what Joy knows. Jon thinks he’s considered it, but so far nothing. “Lord Arryn’s death, and those who left after, don’t you think there’s something unusual about it all?”

Joy’s smile is slow and catlike, oddly like Queen Cersei’s for all that Jon doesn’t actually need Joy’s affirmation to know she and the queen hate each other. “Oh, it’s all very odd,” she says, bright and cheerful, eyes wide and innocent. “Do you know what you’ll be doing about it?”

Jon shrugs. “Helping my lord. Helping my father. Whatever’s needed, I should think.”

The question is, what exactly will be needed, before all is done?

 


	3. Interlude One: Dragonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, on Dragonstone...

“You are telling me that you left your brother _and my son_ in King’s Landing, knowing that the Lannister bitch committed treason and that they might be in danger?” she demands, voice low and cold. She feels cold, as cold as the Wall her son’s uncle walks, because Jon is at risk, and Renly is too, and damn it he is hers too. Stannis grinds his teeth but won’t meet her eyes, and Ashara swallows back a scream.

“I left them there, unknowing -” Stannis begins, and she cuts him off, unable to control her anger long enough to let him finish.

“Exactly! So they know nothing of the danger they might be in, and Cersei can easily make unwitting hostages of them!” How could he do it? How could he possibly do something like this? She had trusted him. There is no love here, no grand romance, but there is affection born of years together and two children, there has been trust built over time. And now…

She lost her love, was forced to give up her firstborn for half his life, is she now to lose one of the few things that kept her going? Are her boys going to lose their lives for it?

“No. So that she sees them as no threat. Or at least, no more threat than Cersei sees anyone who is not her own kin,” Stannis finishes, and there is an edge to his voice, something she doesn’t quite recognize at first. Then she realizes it is guilt, and fear. “I told Jon Arryn and Jon Arryn is _dead_ , Ashara. That’s why I went to him, instead of confiding in you or Renly or Davos. Normally, you know, I would have, but this… I couldn’t risk any of you. I - you are - I simply could not do it.”

“And Jon?” It’s the only time her husband fumbles his words, trying to give voice to emotions he feels but cannot seem to understand as others do, but Ashara is in no mood to be understanding.

“If he didn’t go north to see his father’s family, when all know how deeply fond he is of them, if I took him from Renly’s service with no explanation… It would draw further suspicion. Right now I am relying on the belief that I left out of a fit of anger that Robert chose Eddard Stark to be his Hand. I have ties to Jon Arryn, but the only part of the investigation I was visibly privy to was his meeting with the boy Gendry at Tobho Mott’s shop, and seeing that foolish whore’s daughter. And that is the only protection any of us have, that no one knows what I know, and that I’ve made it clear Renly and Jon know nothing.”

Some of her anger cools with the explanation. She still doesn’t agree, but knowing that Stannis acted in what he thought was the best way to keep Renly and Jon as safe as possible makes it easier. “That ruse won’t hold,” she tells him, quiet and worried. “Renly, at least, is furious with you for not telling him what’s going on. He keeps sending ravens, if Cressen didn’t tell you.”

“Oh, he’s told me. My goodsister has even sent one from Winterfell, in blistering terms.”

Ashara’s lips quirk at that. Stannis will never be fond of Margaery after what her father did at the Siege of Storm’s End - not the siege itself but the mockery is what he won’t forgive - and she is Dornish, but Margaery is spirited enough to be entertaining, at least. And a good match for Renly, in that sense. She’s as fond of mischief as he is, and stubbornly loyal to family, her husband included. But she cannot hold the humor for long.

“Robert won’t listen to you. He may have listened to Lord Arryn, but now…” There is an obvious choice, someone Robert will at least hear out, whatever the words may be. “He chose Ned as his new Hand because he trusts him.”

“He chose him because he would rather have Eddard Stark for a brother than Renly or I,” Stannis bites back, and really the ruse that he left in a fit of pique works to some degree. Anyone with a bit of sense would consider that Stannis is too bound to his duty to let anger chase him from it, but also all know how he resents Robert’s obvious preference for a foster-father and -brother over his blood kin.

And, of course, there’s her. Her past with Ned.

“But he trusts him, Stannis,” she says, a part of her mind lingering in the Winterfell godswood she finally saw for a different marriage of Stark and Dayne, where a confrontation long years in wait finally took place. “And Ned - he always means well, if nothing else. If Robert won’t listen to you… Perhaps we should return to the capital. People will say you’re over your sulk, and you might well have a chance to speak to Ned about all of this.”

“No.”

“And why not?”

Stannis shakes his head. “Because it’s possible that Cersei suspects. And the only way to figure out what to do is to stay alive long enough to do it. You’re right, I do need to speak with Lord Stark, but I need to be ready first. I’ve most of the fleet here, but it won’t be enough. I’ve sent Davos to the Free Cities for sellswords, though I’ve not explained everything to him yet. I will when he returns, and Maester Cressen; I will want their counsel. The West will rise for Cersei’s children, Tywin Lannister is not one to simply allow his children to be executed and his grandchildren named for the bastards they are.”

“But if Robert declares it, surely most of the realm will follow him.”

“The Stormlands, the Riverlands, the North. The Crownlands.” Stannis lists them. “But Dorne will most likely stay out of it, none can say what the Iron Islands will do, the Vale was closed off behind Lysa Arryn and while one who doesn’t know her would expect her to join with her kin…”

“Lysa Arryn is more likely to hide away in the Eyrie,” Ashara finishes scornfully. She has small love for the widow Arryn, although she suspects a deep unhappiness drove the woman to her current state. There are ways and ways to deal with pain, and how Lysa has handled it does no one any good. Including herself.

“Exactly. And the Reach… Renly’s marriage aside, there’s no reason to think the Tyrells will bestir themselves. Even in the Rebellion, even with their siege, it was a clever way to support Aerys without actually risking much in true battle, of which Reach forces only fought one. The Blackfyre Rebellions, the Dance of the Dragons… When civil war rages, the Tyrells often stay out of it as best they can, and I don’t trust Mace Tyrell not to continue the pattern. Margaery, and the... affection Loras and Renly have, should keep them from joining with the Lannisters, but that’s the best to be hoped for. And, that’s assuming all even believe the children to be bastards, and the kingdoms don’t divide against themselves as they began to do when Jon Arryn and Robert called the banners. Those Davos is to hire… Men who fight for gold aren’t the most trustworthy, but seeking them out won’t alert anyone here, and it gives us a starting force.”

Ashara’s never considered the issue in quite that light, but it makes sense. The only war she can think of where the Tyrells took an active role was Daeron’s conquest. Some Reach houses have been deeply involved in the various civil wars, but never their ruling lords. It makes sense. And even more, the idea that regions won’t all follow whichever side their liege lord deems to be best… Well, Jon Arryn had to pacify the Vale, and Robert Baratheon the Stormlands, before they could march on the Targaryens. Houses from every region save the Iron Islands fought on both sides at the Redgrass Field.

“Have you heard from Davos, since you sent him out?” she asks, because while sellswords and sellsails to supplement the navy aren’t ideal, she does see how they will be of use if it comes to war. And Stannis is right. It will come to war because Tywin Lannister will force it.

“He writes that he is traveling to Lys to speak with an old acquaintance, Sallador Saan,” Stannis says. “And also that, while anchored in Pentos, he spoke with a man who leads a force of sellswords, and a cousin who leads a connected force of sellsails. Rion and Faleron d’Altari, and they name their forces the Cliff Dragons, of all the ridiculous names. Davos says they’re Lorathi, it’s a reference to some local folk song. Not a terribly large force, he says, but they’ve a reputation as good as the Golden Company for keeping a contract once making one. Which is to say, not perfect, but better than most.”

Why does that surname sound familiar? Ashara is sure she knows it, and from more than one place too, but she can’t think of it.

“So what do we do in the meantime?” she finally asks, putting the question of how she knows that name aside.

“For the moment, we wait for the right opportunity.”

\---

She doesn’t talk about the dragon dreams. When Shireen was younger, she’d thought the stone dragons were coming to eat her. Now… Now she doesn’t think that, because they never actually do. They fly toward her, but past her, and…

And she doesn’t understand them. She never does. She’s too much her father’s daughter to think they mean something, except that sometimes dreams do. Or so they say. Was Daenys the Dreamer a true person or just someone the Targaryens made up to make them sound even more the chosen ones? What does it mean for her, a girl whose house was founded by a man who might have been a Targaryen bastard, whose great-grandmother was a Targaryen?

Robin believes in magic, or at least in the possibility of it. That thought makes something twist in Shireen’s chest. He looked so upset the day he told her his mother was insisting he return to the Eyrie with her.

_“Well, it’s only proper, Robin. You have to bury your father, don’t you?”_

__

_“Yes, but her eyes are so strange, Shireen, and her voice, the color of it, it’s all wrong!”_

Colors of sounds on the air. Shireen wishes she could see it sometimes, and wondeers if they are why Robin believes in magic. He promised to write her, but she hasn’t had a single raven, and her letters go unanswered. It scares her.

It scares her as much as the closed harbor does. Ser Davos is gone, off somewhere. Devan, newly knighted, and Steffon and Stanny, now in his and Bryen’s place as Father’s squires, have no idea where their father is. Or if they do they’re not allowed to tell, but she knows they don’t because not a one of them can lie for love nor money. That’s a phrase her royal uncle uses, and while she’s not particularly fond of him, she likes that.

And for all these reasons, Shireen’s in her favorite part of Dragonstone, a little hidden cove that is, to her mind, the only spot of beauty on the grim island. Oh, she supposes the castle itself has a certain dark beauty, a cold, sharp kind, but she prefers her cove with the pale sand and the gentle waves, with a large rock she can sit atop and watch the sun set. Here she can think about her dreams and wonder, think about Robin and not have to hide the tears stinging her eyes, think about the closed harbor and what it all means.

“Shireen?”

She’d heard Arthur’s footsteps before he spoke, and no one else knows she comes here so she’d known it was him too. “Hello, little brother. Come to watch the sun with me?”

“Come to stop you from brooding too much, you’ll turn into Father,” Arthur says with an easy smile that is Mother and Uncle Renly all at once, and nothing like how their father’s lips occasionally twitch upward. He clambers up to sit next to her, leaning against her side. He’s nearly as tall as her now, in spite of being near three years younger. “You’re worried, I can tell. Robin’ll be all right, his mother’s a terror but his uncle’s there, isn’t he? And he’s always had nice things to say about Ser Brynden after visits home.”

Shireen ruffles her brother’s hair, as coal black as her own. When he and Tommen play together, they look nothing like cousins, but no one could deny she and her brother look like siblings, even if he’s by far the better looking one. Even with her eyes and Mother’s cheekbones, she has her greyscale and Father’s jaw. “It’s not just that, Arthur.”

“I know,” he says, quiet and suddenly serious. “Jon wrote from Darry, he said Uncle Renly’s furious we left, ‘cause he doesn’t know why. And Jon’s worried ‘cause he doesn’t either. You don’t know, do you?”

“No,” Shireen has to admit. “It must be important though, for Father to shirk his duties on the council.”

“Do you think something bad is happening?”

Shireen thinks of her latest dream, the one that had her trembling this morning as she paced her bedchamber before the sun had even risen. Thinks about the stone and flame dragons, the wolves racing below, and the ice dragon bigger than any of them, shrieking so that even when she woke her ears ached. She thinks of Myrcella, smiling brightly while Joffrey leads her in a dance, hands pinching, and how her golden princess of a cousin explained that royalty must always smile bright and make the people around them think nothing is wrong.

Shireen is only almost royalty, but she smiles gently for her little brother and ruffles his hair again. “‘Course not. Important, sure, but it’ll all be settled soon and everything will be fine.”

 **  
**She’s not quite sure why one would lie for money, but for love, and to keep a brother from worrying, well, that she understands.


	4. The Natives Are So Restless Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weddings. Tourneys. Happy times. Also intrigues. And threats. Mustn't forget those.

Court isn’t the same when they return. Obviously this would be so, as the Arryn household has been replaced by the Stark one and the Dragonstone Baratheons are gone, but there is a new addition in the form of Elinor Tyrell and her household. Joy’s surprised they’re here now rather than waiting to attend Sansa and Willas’ wedding, but then again, perhaps moving into the Red Keep was easier with most of court gone.

Whatever the reason for their arrival now, Elinor and her ladies are settled in the Maidenvault, where Myrcella and her household spend their time. Joy, left at loose ends with Lady Margaery at Highgarden, finds herself informally attached to Myrcella’s household as she had done on the road back from Winterfell.

She hasn’t spent much time with any of her cousins save for Tyrek since her wedding, and before that she was in Cersei’s household, but the changes in Miri and Rosa are astounding. Miri all but runs Myrcella’s rooms, ensuring that no one gets close to the princess unless they have Miri’s leave. It is exactly what Cersei would want, her daughter guarded against any non-Lannister influence, but then, like Lancel, Miri had been more than a little taken in by Cersei’s glamour.

Of course, being far smarter than Lancel, Miri is far more useful. Still, Joy misses her impish schoolroom companion, wishes Miri’s hazel eyes still danced instead of watching everyone and everything with a gaze sharp as Valyrian steel.

If the changes in Miri make her sad, the changes in Rosa leave Joy downright unsettled. She and Miri had guessed Rosa was to be Myrcella’s decoy should her life be in danger, and either someone told Rosa this or she worked it out for herself. She is the princess’ shadow, two steps behind her at just about every moment of the day, as much as Ser Arys of the Kingsguard. And more than that, she carries herself like Myrcella, mimics her gestures, her way of speaking…

In the right clothes, with her hair curled, it would even take Joy a moment to realize who she actually was. There is just something wrong about that.

She tries not to think about it, sitting there and stitching with the rest of the young ladies of the court, tries not to wonder how she might have looked at it were she newly-come from the Rock now. Because in truth she can guess that she would have found it uncomfortable but necessary. The house must endure, and everyone is an enemy. And for her, at least, even the family could be the enemy, should anyone ever learn the secret her mother would not even tell her father, that Joy never even told Tyrek.

But… Are things so different, now? Has she not simply shifted her allegiance to her husband and his kin?

No, there is a difference. Jon she could tell the truth of her bloodline to, because he had been raised by a man who did not kill children, even the children of the enemy. Because she trusted him, and knew he would not betray her. Whereas Tyrek would never mean to, but he was like her father, he wasn’t good at hiding things. Someone would know there was a hidden thing, and knowing, would seek it out.

Margaery and Renly are ambitious, but unlike Cersei won’t torch the world to get what they want, while Stannis is stubborn in his duty and Ashara impatient with court games despite a skill for them. The Starks Joy knows little of and understands less, save for sharp-tongued, clever Arya and Sansa with her sweet smiles and pretty courtesies hiding intelligence. Myrcella would like them, Joy thinks, because Myrcella is different to the girls that surround her. She’s not devoted to Lannister interests like Miri, or perfectly obedient like Rosa. She plays the perfect princess by necessity of nothing else - Cersei is too cold, Joffrey too vicious, Tommen too shy and Robert too often in his cups, and so it falls to Myrcella to be the model royal. But Joy wagers that in her own way, Myrcella is as much a caged lioness as her mother, hemmed in by expectation.

Or… No. It’s not Cersei Joy thinks of, when she watches Myrcella’s fingers still on her embroidery and her eyes stray to the windows, it’s not Cersei she is painfully, so painfully reminded of on mornings when her royal cousin stalks out to the gardens, ruining her pretty slippers walking in dew-damp grass rather than on the paths.

“I liked seeing the North, and the Kingsroad,” Myrcella confides to Joy one such morning. “I liked knowing that there was more than this or the Rock, that it was real, before Dorne swallows me up forever.”

“Dorne isn’t so bad,” Joy tells her, wondering at the fact that for once they actually are alone. Rosa and Miri are… Somewhere.

“They’re with my mother, reporting to her,” Myrcella says, catching her looking. “I don’t think Miri will let you be alone with me again once Mother has her say, but for now. Dorne… What was it like, then?”

 ****  


“Well, I didn’t see Sunspear, or the Water Gardens,” Joy says, thinking of the Martell households where Myrcella will likely spend her time. “They say both the Martell boys are coming for the tourney, though, and Trystane Martell and Arya Stark have been corresponding for years. Once Arya comes, she should have some of the answers you want, and I’m sure your betrothed will happily talk to you.”

Myrcella tosses her hair. “At least it will be different. Don’t you ever just want to get on a ship and leave, Joy? Go on adventures like your father? I am so very sick of being the perfect pretty princess all the time!”

By the Lady, it is like looking at her father reborn in another form, when Myrcella says that and turns her head to the harbor, as though seeing herself on one of the ships sailing to parts unknown. My father left me, he left me alone at the mercy of your grandfather, he is not someone to emulate!

Joy says nothing, though, as just then someone else wanders out into the gardens. Myrcella ignores the redheaded Reach girl who is part of Elinor Tyrell’s household, her eyes on the harbor and her head in dreams, but Joy considers her. Rohanne Osgrey is a distant cousin of theirs, great-granddaughter of Tytos Lannister’s half-brother. This is the kind of thing Joy has been raised to know, just like all the other Lannisters - who might know when those distant Reach cousins could be useful? They even carry a lion on their banners, by chance, green on a silver and black chequy field.

Rohanne is half-Florent, which is to make her kin to an old, strong house - though not so strong as they once were. She has the Florent ears and little else, which is lucky for a girl whose mother is Lady Selyse Florent, so Joy has heard. She has also heard that Lady Selyse was almost the bride of Stannis Baratheon, which would change so much in Joy’s world as to have made it utterly different.

 ****  


The girl barely seems to notice them, intent instead on the charcoal and paper in her hand as she sketches… something, though Joy, who has watched the redhead watch everyone and everything else, is not fooled. Still, Rohanne lets them be and so Joy lets her be, settling instead on a bench with, of all things, an embroidery project.

She has never been particularly keen on embroidery, though she enjoys the results of it enough to carry on with it. She will never have the artistry her goodsister Sansa can create with needle and thread, but she can make pretty things. Once, the only way she could hope for pretty things was to make them herself. She doesn’t need to make her own clothes anymore, but this… This she wants to make herself.

The cloth is soft and pale blue, and in the middle Joy has already stitched, in a darker blue, a symbol of protection. In her faith, children have blue blankets, blue strings tied to their wrists, and little blue amulets worn around their necks until they are of age, to protect them from ill spirits. (Joy’s own amulet had been put away before she came to court, on orders from her lordly uncle, but she kept it and now is glad she did.) This is Lorathi, as is the phoenix stitched in black in the lower right corner. The phoenix is the emblem of the d’Altaris, a badge used in business dealings and the like. Somewhat like a sigil, but not exactly.

What is Westerosi are the other three symbols. Already in pale purple thread she has stitched a falling star and a sword in the lower left corner. Now, she picks up yellow thread and carefully shapes a lion in the upper right corner. When she is done, there is white thread for a direwolf in the last empty corner.

Jon hasn’t asked her about being sick in the mornings yet, or why she no longer eats apples in spite of the fact that she’s always loved them, or why she forgoes wine in favor of mint or ginger teas. So she hasn’t told him that the smell of apples and the taste of wine turns her stomach, that the mint and ginger drinks soothe it. She hasn’t mentioned that her moon blood hasn’t come in three months.

Joy is no fool and she knows exactly what these symptoms indicate. She means to see a maester to be sure, though not Pycelle. He adores her lordly uncle far too much for Joy ever to feel comfortable with him, even disregarding the way his hands linger when young ladies of the court seek his medical advice.

She’s just threading her needle with white thread when Myrielle arrives in the garden with word that Prince Quentyn is arriving today and that Myrcella needs to make herself presentable. Myrcella leaves, but Miri lingers, eyeing Joy’s blanket before saying, “The Queen said to tell you that she’d like for you to join her and her ladies today.”

That’s a surprise, and one Joy doesn’t like. It’s particularly inconvenient now, when she knows full well that any sign of apparent “affection” from her crowned cousin could be trouble for her husband with his father or even his former knight-master. Which, come to think of it, might be why Cersei’s made the offer.

Of course, a royal offer is a command said in pretty words, so Joy presents herself in Cersei’s solar to sit with her and her ladies. She has embroidery, though not the blanket tucked at the bottom of her sewing basket - there’s no need to display that to Cersei, to offer a potential weakness to an enemy. She works on a trim for a new sash, instead.

“I see you’re wearing foreign clothes again.” Cersei tells her, with a smile meant to be friendly. Oh, Cersei can be charming when she so chooses, can make people like her - though usually she bothers only with men, not women - but Joy has seen too many of her disdainful looks by now to be anything but even more worried.

“Sometimes, Your Majesty,” she says with a polite smile of her own. “I honor my mother by keeping her customs as you honor yours by wearing that lovely necklace.” Cersei’s favorite, the lion’s head medallion, once belonged to Lady Joanna. No one ever dares mention it, and it’s reckless to do so, but Joy does it to see what Cersei will do.

Nothing, as it turns out, save for a quick flash of vicious fury in her green eyes. “Of course. Family is everything,” Cersei says, voice light and airy as she reaches into Joy’s sewing basket. “Oh, isn’t this a pretty thing,” she continues, pulling out the blanket, and Joy curses herself for not having had the time to do more than hide it.

“Just a small thing, hopefully to be of some use eventually. I didn’t know if I could find the cloth when it would be more timely, and I did so like it.” The lie comes easily, but Joy doesn’t know if it will be enough. Her belly clenches, and she wills herself not to be sick. There are so many ways to be vulnerable and she’s almost forgotten, because even if she’s not entirely trusted, marrying Jon has made her part of a circle that guards its own. It’s made her forget how to handle being part of a family that turns on itself.

“I’m sure your husband will be pleased when you can tell him it will be needed.” As Cersei speaks, Cerenna and Lanna, cousin Damion’s daughter and wife to Lord Jast, glance at each other over their own sewing and surreptitiously watch. The rest of the women, Crownlanders and lesser Lannisters and Westerlanders, don’t know the family well enough to understand the strangeness of this, the danger. Joy’s eyes catch Cerenna’s, bright and blue, and though she and this cousin never got on before, now there is sympathy in Cerenna’s eyes, and a shade of Joy’s own wariness.

How ironic, that arrogant, dismissive Cerenna understands what Myrielle, who had always been gentle and perceptive, does not. That Cerenna should hold herself aloof from their glamorous cousin while her little sister is completely entranced. How suggestive that Cersei should know to look for the blanket, when Myrielle would have seen her working on it yesterday in the Maidenvault. And how foolish Joy has been, to let her.

“Of course. I only hope that I can please my husband with the children I bear as much as you surely have pleased yours.” Is it fear, or anger that is making Joy needle Cersei even as she knows her danger? She doesn’t know, but Lanna’s lips twitch as though she fights a smile, and Cerenna’s gaze snaps to Joy’s again with a flicker of glee. Both of them have felt the sting of Cersei’s attention, Joy has heard, because both of them recently sought to go home to their husbands and children. To no avail, clearly. So they are enjoying this even as they know what it could be.

And Joy? There is something exhilarating in refusing to be cowed by the barbs behind Cersei’s kindly-sounding words, something that delights in no longer being just “the bastard”.

That is, until Cersei speaks again, one finger tracing the embroidered lion on the blanket. “Children are a gift, and family is so important. Why, you owe everything to the fact that you can put this lion on a blanket meant for your future child, don’t you? Without us, you would be a peasant girl in the lowest of the Free Cities, without husband or future at all.”

This, of course, is far from the truth and would be even if Joy’s mother’s family wasn’t who they were behind the name and the tale of being from Lys by way of Volantis. Her mother had been no peasant in Lorath but the proprietress of a successful business, and bastards had far better chances in general in the Free Cities. But the precise details aren’t Cersei’s point here, so Joy says nothing and Cersei carries on.

“You owe us everything. My father could well have cast you out to die when his brother went missing. I think you’ve forgotten that, my dear Joy. You’ve been taking your marriage vows seriously, and that is of course your duty. But now that you hope to be a mother, you really should remember that the ties of blood will be far more important in determining the future of your children.”

You utter bitch. The words are on Joy’s tongue but she knows better than to voice them. Instead she continues to offer her polite smile. “Of course, Your Majesty. I won’t forget again,” she says, thinking, I will tear you apart with my bare hands if you try and harm my baby.

Cersei dismisses her at midday, and Joy, refusing to allow herself to be scared, finds a maester right then, just as she planned to do. She tells him of her symptoms and he puts his hands to her stomach, checks her breath (why she isn’t sure), and questions her in detail about the past months, her courses and when she lay with her husband. Finally, he confirms that yes, she is with child, and that is all she needs to hear.

Back in the chambers she shares with Jon, she is finishing the white direwolf when he comes in, tugging off the fancy clothing he hates to change into more comfortable things. He’s in breeches and nothing else when he finally notices what’s in her lap. “What, what is that?”

Joy looks up and smiles, all wide-eyed innocence. “Oh, this? It’s a baby blanket. I’m told we will need it in five months or so.”

When Jon pulls her from the chair and spins her around, Joy closes her eyes and orders herself to remember this, and not her cousin’s poison. She isn’t one of them any longer.

Though Jon knows nothing of Cersei’s words, once Joy tells him the news, she acquires a pale shadow. Ghost follows at her heels wherever she goes, to whichever cousin’s solar she is summoned, and really, Joy could not have declared where her allegiance lies better herself.

\---

It’s strange, to sit before her mirror in her rooms in Highgarden and have her mother brushing her hair as she did when Sansa was a little girl in Winterfell, but it’s strangely soothing too. They are more alike than ever, Sansa can see, meeting her mother’s eyes in the mirror. But Sansa’s hair is a shade or two darker, her eyes a different shape for all that they are the same color. The shape of Arya’s eyes, of Father’s.

 ****  


“It’s lucky that a bride in the Reach wears her hair simply,” Catelyn Stark jokes as she weaves the thin pair of braids that will be clipped back, to keep Sansa’s hair out of her eyes. “It’s been so long since I had to remember southron hairstyles, I doubt I could manage one! And I wouldn’t like to see servants doing your hair today.”

Lady Alerie would have been happy to help, of course, but Sansa doesn’t say that. She would not have wanted her soon-to-be goodmother’s assistance, not for this. Not today. Just as it wasn’t Alla or Margaery she wanted to help her pick her bridal wreath.

She smiles at the memory of this morning, barely dawn, the gardens lit by rose-gold light, when she and Arya had slipped out of the castle. In the Reach, a bride picks flowers to make into a wreath that she wears with her maiden’s cloak. It need not be of any particular flowers, though born Tyrells tend to pick roses of some color. When the groom removes the bride’s maiden cloak and replaces it with his own, he removes the wreath as well, to replace it with some other one, usually amaranth or ivy or forget-me-nots, all of which Sansa has been taught are symbols of fidelity or faithful love.

The Tyrells braid ivy with golden roses, which Sansa imagines has never surprised anyone in hundreds of years. Of course not.

Arya, however, had been surprised when Sansa had made the offer.

“Me? You’re sure? Aren’t you afraid I’ll get you all dirty?”

“You’re my sister. And I’ll be bathing anyway, why should I care? Come on now, I want you to help me pick something fit for a Stark bride.”

What now sits on Sansa’s table is a wreath of blue and white morning glories. White like the Stark cloak, like summer snows, blue like winter roses and the ice of the Wall, or so it’s said. Strange, how when she lived there Sansa wanted nothing more than to leave the North, but now she’s come to miss it.

Or, she thinks, looking at Lady sprawled on the floor by her bed, perhaps it’s just the same part of her that is connected to Lady, that sends her dreams of exploring the grounds of Highgarden as Lady. It reminds her of the day when she cried into Lady’s fur, before her mother came to speak to her, after Garlan and Loras had arrived to escort her south. “You were right, Mother,” she says quietly as Catelyn helps her into her wedding dress, a pretty thing of white silk and a bodice embroidered with silver threads. Silver roses are sewn along the trim of the skirt. Tyrell roses in Stark colors, Sansa thinks, smoothing the skirt.

“About what?” Catelyn asks, freeing Sansa’s hair from the back of the dress and settling the wreath on her head.

Sansa thinks about Arya’s questions that morning, her fierce sister for once subdued as she asked Sansa if she was afraid to marry, to be under the total control of a husband. Arya must be thinking of Trystane Martell, wondering how she will do with a stranger, but Sansa is not wedding a stranger, as her mother did or her sister will. “When you said that love with grow with time. It didn’t happen at first, I was much too young, but now I think I…” He kissed me in the godswood with its three weirwoods, we lay in the grass together and did nothing but kiss for an hour or more. It had been only weeks ago, but already it’s one of her best memories, a memory she had enjoyed sharing with Arya, if only because Arya smiled with her when she told it.

This she cannot tell her mother, but Catelyn sees something, perhaps, in the flush that rises to Sansa’s cheeks or in her eyes. She presses a soft kiss to Sansa’s forehead. “I have seen the way you look at each other, Sansa. It makes it easier today, knowing that you’ll be happy.”

Arya bursts in, grinning widely at the sight of Sansa. “You’re missing your cloak,” she says, teasing, and since Sansa is taller than either her mother or her sister, she bends her knees so the two of them can put it on her. It’s a heavy thing, and Sansa made it herself, the weight of the white cloth on her lap as she carefully sewed a direwolf in grey thread shot through with silver.

Bran meets them outside the sept, and Mother and Arya go to find their seats. “I know it was meant to be Father,” Bran says with a lopsided grin, looking so like a male mirror to Sansa herself that all she can do is shake her head. Robb looks like their uncle, so much so that it’s uncanny, but she is their mother, and Bran is too. Rickon, though, he’s a redheaded Stark; he looks like Father just as Arya does.

“It’s not his fault, what a king wants, he will have,” Sansa tells her brother with casualness she doesn’t entirely feel, bending to kiss his cheek. She does understand, but she can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt, to not have her father here to give her away.

But then, she’s also glad it’s Bran. She loves Robb, but when she’d last seen him he’d been different. Acting too much the young lord, is how Arya puts it. Bran, with his bright eyes and bright smile, just links their arms when it’s time to enter the sept.

Highgarden’s sept is lovely, if not quite so elaborate as the Starry Sept where she knows Willas wishes they could have wed, or the Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing where Margaery wed Renly Baratheon. For herself, Sansa prefers this sept - there is warmth here, and an intimacy born of being a family sept. She knows Septon Thom and has since she arrived in Highgarden. She would much rather have him than some unknown septon, even in a fancier sept.

And, really with the intricate carvings and marble statues of the Seven, the mosaic floors and frescoed walls, she doesn’t think the Highgarden sept really is that much less in those terms.

None of it matters when she catches Willas’ gaze, though. She can't look away from him as Bran escorts her down the aisle, and she's thinking about days spent on the bench in the godswood, about Lady following Willas as easily as she does Sansa herself. The vows pass in a blur, the prayers and the hymns. Sansa only really notices the way Willas is smiling at her, and the feel of her hand in his. Technically they should be using both hands, but Willas has one hand wrapped around his cane so that won't do.

She lets his hand go briefly to turn so that he can pull the cloak from her shoulders - Sansa helps by undoing the clasp, and for a moment she feels impossibly light as the Stark cloak falls away. For a moment she has no family, has no name, and how strange that thought is. Then Willas is settling the Tyrell cloak on her shoulders and Sansa fastens that clasp herself as well, before turning around. Willas has his cane in one hand again, because the flower crown she wears can be removed one-handed. He sets the morning glories on the altar and picks up the ivy and roses, settling it on her head.

When they kiss, it's nothing like those kisses in the godswood; it's quick and light but she can feel him smiling and she is too, so that's all right. And in any case, nothing else is appropriate for the sept, especially not in full view of their families and no small number of the Tyrells' most important bannermen.

At the feast, Sansa almost thinks her feet will fall off. She's dancing with Megga, Alla, Jeyne, and Arya in the group dances, and then for the partnered dances... Well. Willas can't dance with her but Garlan makes up for that with a wink, Bran spins her away from her new goodbrother with the same grin he'd given her that morning, and she and Rickon giggle their way through a set. They make a silly picture and she knows it, given that she's half a head taller than her smallest brother, but oh, she's too happy that he remembered her this time, from when she came home to Winterfell for Robb's wedding.

Even Lord Mace dances with her, kind in his pompous way. Sansa had never been sure if he ever warmed to her, really - he's never gotten past his discomfort with Lady, and so she's never been sure of him. But tonight he smiles and calls her gooddaughter, kissing her mother's hand and partnering her for the next dance. Sansa sits this one out, linking her arm around Willas' as she sits next to him, watching Alla and Arya dance - it's a southron dance, so while typically a maiden would partner a young man, Alla is teaching Arya the steps. Bran and Rickon have found partners as well among the bannermen's daughters, and Jeyne Poole laughs as friendly Mark Mullendore spins her around.

Then Willas' Uncle Garth calls for the bedding, and the nerves Sansa hasn't felt all day come crowding in. She doesn't want this. When she was a girl, she thought the bedding was silly and wicked, but that was before she'd had to participate at Margaery's wedding. Lord Renly had taken it all in laughing good stride, but Sansa remembers how the other ladies had snatched at his clothes, remembers the men all but falling on Margaery, and she stands and smiles but her heart is racing.

Willas catches her eye and offers a comforting smile, and her smile becomes a bit more genuine as she looks back at him, because she can see in his eyes he's not thrilled about this either. Of course not - they will see his leg, and he always takes such pains to not let anyone see the scars. She will see them tonight, but that is different. Still, she thinks maybe he's more worried about that than she is about the fact that she is still not so curvy as Margaery or the other girls here at Highgarden, that she is too tall instead and has so many freckles. And so perhaps she can get through this without too much trouble.

Then the men are converging on her, and her wedding cloak and flower wreath are gone in a trice, her outer gown following halfway down the corridor - Willas' chamber is on the ground floor, the same as the hall, though in a completely different part of the castle. But before they can take anything else off, she suddenly finds herself hoisted up in Garlan's arms. He grins at her and kisses her cheek. "Promised my brother I'd keep them off you," he tells her with a laugh, and then takes off down the hall at a run so that the others have trouble keeping up.

Even so Sansa somehow loses her shoes and stockings, and one of her braids comes undone, but she's still mostly dressed when Garlan sets her on her feet outside Willas' bedchamber. They can hear female laughter drifting their way so he kisses her cheek again and chivvies her inside.

A few moments later Willas stumbles in, looking rumpled and annoyed. He still has his cane - Margaery would have seen to it - but he's down to his underthings otherwise. "Oh good, Garlan listened to me," he says, expression clearing as he looks at her.

"Of course he did," Sansa says, and she's blushing now, because Willas is down to his underthings and he's her husband now and really. "You should sit down," she says quickly, to draw attention away from her sudden blush, and the wonderful sort of nervousness she's feeling.

Willas must misinterpret it, though, because while he goes to sit on the bed, he looks up at her with very real concern. "Sansa... I've thought this through. You're still... You're a maiden but you're young still. If you wish, we can wait."

The choice is hers? Sansa wants to kiss him anyway, but even if she didn't, that would have her closing the distance and leaning in to kiss him softly. "I want to see," she tells him in a whisper, earnestly. "I want to try things, and see where we go from there."

His hands are in her hair and they're kissing again. Maybe they will truly lie together tonight and maybe not, but Sansa thinks it will be soon, either way, and that it will be right when they do.

\---

They sneak off as Garth Tyrell calls for the bedding, Alla’s hand twined in hers. Arya is glad enough not to have to help strip her new goodbrother, or see the men converge on her sister, but most of all she’s glad for time alone with Alla. That’s something they’ve never really had before, not at Starfall or Winterfell or on the road. She isn’t sure what they’ll do with it, but it’s nice to have.

From what Jon’s written about the court, they won’t have it again so long as they are there.

Alla’s stolen sweets from the table, spice cakes and candied fruits and a flask filled with cider, and they settle in the godswood, sprawled on the grass before the pool and the three entwined weirwoods Alla says are called the Three Sisters. This weirwood is nothing like Winterfell’s, of course; the trees circling the clearing around the weirwoods and their pool are silver birch and weeping willows outside of those, so that anyone by the Sisters is hidden by their long, trailing branches. Still… It has something of the feel of the godswood at home, that sense that the gods are here, that the leafy walls make this a place apart from the world.

“They could almost be one tree,” Arya says, looking up at the entwined weirwoods consideringly.

“Everyone says that, the first time they see it,” Alla tells her, laughing. “Tell me, Arya, do you know if you’ll be leaving for Dorne when Princess Myrcella does? Willas says he’s had word from the capital that she’s to leave after the tourney in your father’s name.”

Arya rolls up on one elbow, mimicking Alla’s posture. “I don’t know, I’ll find out when we get to King’s Landing, probably. Jon said he and Father wouldn’t be sending us ravens here, in case they missed us, so there’s no way I could know. Though it’s a bit odd that Sansa’s husband knows so much about the princess, isn’t it? Why do you ask?”

Alla sighs. “Oh, Willas is always hearing things. And I ask because I will. Lord Mace has arranged my match with Edric Dayne of Starfall.”

“Jon’s cousin! But I thought you didn’t get along with the Dornish here in the Reach?”

“We don’t. Why do you think it’s me marrying a Dornishman?” There is a sharp edge to Alla’s voice now. “My mother might rule Honeyholt in her nephew’s name till he’s of age, but as a Tyrell I am about as small a rosebud as it is possible to be. Even Megga and her kin are a slightly senior branch. That’s why when Margaery married Lord Renly, though we’d all grown up here together, Elinor is the one now betrothed to Joffrey. She’s in the line of succession for Highgarden - her grandfather was once his brother Luthor’s heir, because Lord Luthor and Lady Olenna had trouble conceiving for long years before they had their first two children. I am enough a Tyrell to make the link to a well-connected lordling like Edric Dayne, my mother’s rank enough to ensure he’s not insulted, but not enough a Tyrell that the marriage is too unpleasant to be borne.”

“Alla…” Arya doesn’t know what to say. While she is a better lady now than she used to be - when she absolutely must be - she’s never really spent much time thinking about what it’s like to have a name but not be quite the same as other people with that name. She doesn’t know anyone like that, at home.

“I’ll be of higher rank than I expected, so it’s not such a bad thing,” Alla cuts in, sitting up. “And maybe they won’t mind my weaving in Dorne. If ladies inherit in their own right even with younger brothers and some of them are allowed to fight, surely they won’t start clucking like hens over me with my little loom?”

“I don’t think Edric will. He was nice enough to me when he came to Winterfell, when his aunt Allyria married my brother Robb. He even sparred with me. And you met him at the wedding, didn’t you? Jon and Joy’s?”

“Only in passing. He’s pleasing to the eye, and near my age, so I really don’t have cause to complain.” Alla goes quiet for a moment, then says, “And I hear he and your prince are fast friends, yes?”

Arya nods. “That’s why Trystane was at Jon’s wedding, remember? He was visiting Edric, since usually Edric’s at Lord Dondarrion’s castle and so they don’t see each other as they did when they were small and played at the Water Gardens.”

“I remember reading that Maron Martell built that palace for Daenerys Targaryen, but I didn’t know it still existed. Isn’t it a Martell palace?”

“No,” Arya says. “Well, yes, but Allyria told me the Martells gather children of all ranks and they play there together. She and Edric were both there, and all the Martell children, Prince Doran’s heirs and Prince Oberyn’s bastards. Jon might have spent time there too if he’d stayed with his mother." She eats a spice cake to give herself a moment to think, to find the words. "I'm glad they're friends. Edric and Trystane, I mean. It means we won't have to say goodbye."

She can't say why it bothers her so much, the idea that they might have had to. Only that there's something about being around Alla, something that makes Arya feel like she's on the verge of some wonderful discovery, only she doesn't know what it is. Nymeria likes Alla though, she lets Alla pet her even. That means something, Arya's sure of it. She's just not sure what yet.

Nymeria finds them eventually, of course - the direwolves had all been kept out of the wedding, which made Arya frown because that hadn't been the case at Robb or Jon's weddings. But then, Highgarden is so fancily pretty, she supposes their sept and great hall really aren't places for direwolves. But a godswood always is, and so Nymeria doesn't look out of place there.

Arya, Alla, and Nymeria stay in the godswood all night, the girls eventually falling asleep with their heads pillowed on Nymeria's side. When Ser Garlan finds them the next morning, he doesn't mention how Arya's arm is slung over Alla's waist. He just laughs and says they'd best wash up before anyone realizes they spent the night out here.

When they all leave a few days later, Sansa and Willas go with them - Father couldn't come to the wedding, and so they will come to him for the Hand's tourney. Arya notes how Lady keeps pace with their horses, walking between them, and tries not to think about the funny swoop of her stomach when Nymeria does the same between her horse and Alla's.

\---

 ****  


It surprised her, the fierceness in Ned when they were left alone. But Cat welcomed it, welcomed the nearly wild lovemaking that reminded her of nothing so much as when he'd returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion. But now they are curled together in a bed that is not their own, for all that she supposes they have just made it so. And yet it is so obvious that this is not Winterfell, her warm chambers where he always needs an open window, or his where she has a small extra blanket to wrap around herself. This is King's Landing, and much as she had enjoyed it, there was a desperation in his kiss, in his touch that she does not like because it feels all too much like fear.

"I don't belong here, Cat," he admits, and with her head on his chest his voice is a rumble. He's playing with her hair as he so often does - he's always said he loves her hair, hates when she binds it up. She, meanwhile, is running her fingers over his skin, tracing nonsense patterns, but her hands still as he speaks.

"You're doing as your king wishes," she begins cautiously. "You're finding out what happened to Jon Arryn. And when you have proof of Lysa's suspicions, then you can take it to Robert and -"

"And what, Cat?" Ned says, voice tired, almost bleak. Worried, Cat sits up and Ned does too, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Robert is... He doesn't bother to show up to meetings. Not a single one. He spends his days drinking and whoring and - he's nearly beggared the realm, Cat! And he just keeps on going, heedlessly. This tourney is ridiculous, the treasury is empty, the Crown becomes more in debt to Lannister and Tyrell by the day. Robert spends every waking moment surrounded by Lannisters; they push for every place they can grasp. And I am no closer to finding out why Jon was killed. I can't even be certain that he was."

"I'm certain, Ned. Lysa might be upset, frightened, but I cannot imagine that she would have sent that message, even coded, if she weren't sure. I told you that before and I still believe it."

"I know, Cat, but I can't see why. Jon ran things for nineteen good years, why meddle now? The most I can come up with is that Cersei thought her father would be made Hand again, but even for the Lannisters the murder of a King's Hand for pure ambition seems excessive."

Cat isn't sure that she agrees - Ned has just said the Lannisters are everywhere, and she has seen the truth of that herself now, never mind the constant presence of the red cloaks. There appears to be no true palace guard, only Lannister guardsmen and a small contingent of palace-based goldcloaks. It's more than a little unsettling. Cat imagines that if they thought that they could, the Lannisters would do anything to get more power. But even she must admit that, if they were going to poison someone for that reason, it would make more sense, be easier perhaps, to poison the king. Given how he lives, a premature death would not be shocking, and Joffrey is all Lannister. It would make more sense to do that - even if there were those who questioned Robert's death, King Joffrey would be able to protect his kin. Which means, logically, that there is a motive beyond trying to create a chance to increase their power.

"He must have known something," Cat says, slowly. "As you say, replacing him now doesn't make sense. You knew Robert would want you for Hand as soon as he sent the raven about Jon Arryn's death, and Cersei is not stupid, whatever she may be. She must have guessed that her chances of making her father Hand were limited, and less so if she wanted her brother." No one would trust the Kingslayer in any position of power, of that Cat is certain. "What of that book Maester Pycelle gave you?"

Ned shakes his head with a frustrated groan. "I don't know what he wanted with it. The lineages do not even come to the present day, they're near a hundred years old. I've been through the Lannister lineages again and again, trying to figure out what they're hiding, but there's nothing. Perhaps it's a coincidence; surely Jon was looking into more than one thing at a time. What I am wondering is, where is Lord Stannis?"

Cat's wondered the same. Oh, she's happy enough not to deal with the Lord of Dragonstone - no. She doesn't care one way or the other about him; it's the Lady of Dragonstone she is glad not to have to cross paths with. Cat has never lived at court but she knows enough of it to know that every time she and Ashara Dayne would have been in a room, nasty little whispers would have followed them. And her own jealousy would flare again. And yet it is strange, given the closeness of the two younger Baratheon brothers, that Stannis should be gone while Renly remains. And Jon Dayne, of course. She escaped the mother but not the son. She's almost used to that by now. "And Lord Renly knows nothing?"

"He says not, and the same goes for Jon. Both of them tell me they've written several letters, and Jon says that his sister Lady Shireen told him there's something strange happening, but the girl didn't know what it was. He said that he would ask again, but didn't hold out much hope. In truth, I... I wonder how much to tell them," Ned admits. "Renly I am wary of; he seems to be full of nothing but japery and I mislike that. He's rather like your friend Littlefinger."

"Petyr has been helping you," Cat points out, mildly enough.

"Yes, and I saw how he looked at you when you and the children made your official arrival earlier. But he has been useful, that's true enough. If not for him I imagine I'd still be looking for Jon's few remaining servants - Lysa did me no favors taking them off to the Eyrie like she did. I understand her fear but..."

"Perhaps I could go to her," Cat suggests. "No one will question my visiting my sister, especially in her time of grief, and I could learn more of what she knows." She makes the suggestion reluctantly; Arya will be leaving soon after the tourney, accompanying Princess Myrcella to Dorne, and Bran will be going to Riverrun. She had thought to go with her son if she left at all, to see her father before returning here. The idea of having to leave them all again is painful. Especially thinking of the way Ned had pulled her to him, with how upset he is.

"Perhaps," Ned agrees. "What I want to know, above all, is why Lord Stannis is gone. He and Lysa are almost certainly not acting in concert - one thing Jon did know for sure was that Robert, Robin, he calls himself, was not meant to stay in the Eyrie. He was to return to Dragonstone after Jon was laid to rest, and he was not. Whatever Jon Arryn was doing, Lord Stannis was just as involved. Now the one is dead and the other vanished. And there is only so much I dare say either to Renly or to Jon."

That is a surprise to Cat. "You don't trust... your son?" She isn't sure if she is relieved or worried by this. Recently, she decided Jon Dayne was no longer a threat, and yet... Word came as they traveled to the capital that Robb's wife has been delivered of a second daughter. Two girls, and no male heir. Winterfell has never passed directly to a daughter. And now Jon's wife - a Lannister, and Cat does not think they would hesitate to claim more power through her, bastard or no - is beginning to show with their child, or so Arya said after her visit with them.

It puts her on edge. But if Ned has reason to mistrust Jon. she knows it will pain him, so she tries to be sympathetic.

"No, I do trust Jon. I worry that he is too trusting - of his wife. The girl is kind enough, she and Jon clearly adore each other, and yet... I can get no real measure of how Joy is seen by her kin, save that she is near as close to Tyrek Lannister as the queen is to the Kingslayer, and that Princess Myrcella likes to have her among her attendants, bastard-born or no. But I worry that Jon may tell her too much, and that either intentionally or because she trusts too much in her turn, that Cersei may come to know what I suspect. But since I cannot truly confide in Jon, and I will not in Renly, I seem to have nowhere to turn."

"Unless I speak to Lysa," Cat says again. "I think I really will have to."

"And I must find some way of contacting Lord Stannis. But it will all have to wait until after this blasted tourney."

"Bran and Rickon are thrilled about this tourney," Cat says, because she agrees with Ned that it's needless, but her boys' excitement is still a thing she enjoys. Ned laughs, and it is a true laugh even if a tired one.

"Then I shall think on that and try to let it lift my spirits on the matter."

\---

 ****  


“Do you have any idea what your father is up to?” Renly asks as he walks into Jon’s quarters as casually as he did when Jon still lived in a bedchamber adjoining his own. Jon, working on some of the papers Renly had given him, glances up. “Hello, Renly, lovely afternoon, isn’t it?”

“You’ve been spending too much time with my wife. Or possibly yours, they’re both so cheeky,” Renly says, but he laughs a little before dropping into a chair. Jon pours wine into two tall glasses with worked metal bases, rather than goblets - most of the things he and Joy use are hers, left to her by her mother, and so are more Lorathi than Westerosi. Renly shakes his head at the glass, but takes the wine. “So, now that we’ve observed the niceties...”

Jon shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s… He isn’t telling me much. Probably because he expects just this conversation, either with you or with Joy. What I do know for certain is that it must somehow tie back to Stannis, because he keeps asking if I know when he’ll return.”

“Yes, he’s been asking me as well, and it came up in the small council meeting.”

“Shouldn’t you have been focusing on the fact that the city’s in an uproar?” Jon asks, voice very dry. For the past year or so, continuing even now that he is no longer Renly’s squire, a good chunk of Jon’s day has been taken up with papers like the one in front of him, from the city’s judges and bailiffs and the City Watch. Jon condenses those and gives Renly his summaries. It isn’t that Renly can’t deal with them himself; he hates it, but he was raised by Stannis and Maester Cressen so he can tolerate it. It’s just that it serves a dual purpose if Jon does it.

Precisely what purpose it serves beyond Renly escaping paperwork is an interesting question, since there’s very little reason Jon would ever be named to the small council - Renly, Stannis, and Jon’s father now are all likely to be unceremoniously tossed off when Joffrey inherits. Unless Renly’s Tyrell marriage and Joffrey’s let him keep his place. It’s part of his education in politics, but Edric is not likely to need Jon’s services as an heir, so again…

Well, now is not the time to dwell on the issue, he reminds himself as Renly’s voice breaks into his thoughts. “Oh, most of it was - I have to say, I think Stannis was right about Slynt, but I can’t figure out how to get rid of him. He’s corrupt, but odds are any other commander would be too. I tried to make him look incompetent today, but I’m afraid he’s right that his men’s inability to keep the peace has more to do with there just not being enough of them. not with the tourney. Your father gave him men from his own guard. It may help, but if I were your father and Cersei looked at me the way she does him, I’d want all my swords around me.”

“She does look at you the same way, or near enough,” Jon replies, taking a sip of his wine.

“No, not quite. She knows that Robert only listens to me when he wants to, which isn’t often, if more than Stannis. I spent more time with Robert, serving as his squire, than Stannis did, which is why I know how to talk to him. But your father… Robert adores him, and Cersei knows it. I sometimes think Robert’s passion for your aunt had as much to do with the fact that marrying her would make him truly kin to your father as any of her charms. At any rate, he’s a threat if he cares to be, more than anyone else. Cersei gets her way with Robert mostly because if he gives her what she wants, she leaves him in peace with his wine and whores for a while. Ned Stark he’ll listen to from affection.”

Jon can’t find any way to argue with that, but he has to hide a wince at the bitterness in that last word - not so pronounced in his former knight-master as it would have been in his stepfather, but present. He’s never been so grateful that his parents, both of them, did their best to ensure that he would be close with his siblings as now that he knows the Baratheon family the way he does. Oh, he’d known bitter moments when realizing that Robb would inherit Winterfell and the North, that Bran and Rickon would likely hold castles in his name, but the hope of more among his mother’s family had always tempered those.

Renly shakes his head, and drains his glass. “I’ve written Ashara again. She still claims she has no idea why Stannis packed up and returned to Dragonstone, but Ser Cortnay tells me that a ship out of Tarth that stopped at Dragonstone hasn’t been seen since. Even if she doesn’t know the details she must know it’s something, and she insists it’s innocent, that Stannis is just sulking. Which he is annoyingly good at, even I will say so, but he wouldn’t let it get in the way of his duty, not like this. Glowering at your father in council, yes, but running off, no. And I’ve heard Ser Davos is up to something in the Free Cities.”

“From who?” As far as he’s aware, Renly hasn’t got much in the way of a spy network. And Jon is reasonably sure that at this point it’s something he would know. Renly’s let him see just about everything else, even discussing small council meetings with him, after all. So why keep quiet about having informants?

“One of the Hightowers mentioned seeing him to Willas, or some such, and Willas mentioned it to Loras and probably Margaery as well. Our common goodbrother is always picking up tidbits from somewhere.”

That’s true enough, and Jon sometimes wonders about that trait of Willas Tyrell’s, but it isn’t really his concern. “Well, maybe Willas or Margaery will have more to tell you when they arrive for the tourney.” Along with Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon… and Lady Catelyn. “You’re right, though, closing up Dragonstone is… It’s strange. And the word is Lady Arryn’s closed up the Eyrie…”

“And the last thing Stannis was doing was working with Jon Arryn on something. Jon Arryn who is now dead.”

And it hits Jon, suddenly, with a flash of memory from a few days past, talking with Hugh of the Vale. They’d gotten to know each other when, along with Devan, they’d been left to wait for their masters outside the small council chambers. Hugh had been complaining about Jon’s father, about how it was rude of him to send a mere captain of the guard to speak to him instead of summoning him for a personal interview.

“He thinks Jon Arryn’s death wasn’t natural.”

“What?” Renly says, giving him a blank look. Jon shakes his head, mouth dry.

“Father sent Jory - that’s the captain of his guard - to talk to Ser Hugh, Lord Arryn’s former squire. He keeps asking about Stannis, and if it were just about him leaving, well, he could summon him back. He can anyway, but it’d draw attention. Lady Arryn is Lady Catelyn’s sister, if she thinks the same she could have sent some message, and if Stannis thinks so too…”

Renly swears viciously. “He could have bloody well told me.”

“Yes but it’s so very clear you don’t know what’s going on - you haven’t been subtle in your irritation, at all. That might be the point, to prove you’re not involved, or me for that matter. And… My father is wary of Joy.”

Renly catches that implication quick enough. “You think he suspects the Lannisters? Oh, Cersei’s capable of murder, there’s no denying that, but why kill Jon Arryn? She always got most of what she wanted, and she wouldn’t kill him over the marriages for Joffrey and Myrcella - she’s trying to convince Robert to change his mind and has been for years, but…”

“Perhaps she thought the king would make her father Hand, or Ser Jaime?”

“Possible, but it’s chancier than I’d think Cersei would go for, when the situation was already reasonably positive for her. Now, if Robert had been the one to take sick and die, I’d say she’s the first and only suspect, but Jon Arryn… It has to come back to whatever he and Stannis were doing, which leaves us going in circles.”

“And Ser Davos in the Free Cities, apparently. Did Loras say which one?” Jon asks, and Renly laughs, though not happily.

“Lorath, actually. It’s why I remembered - I thought your wife might write to one of her family. Isn’t her grandmother something high ranking at their birdwoman’s temple? She might know some-,” Renly stops talking as the door opens.

“The Winged Lady’s temple, and my grandmother is high priestess, which makes her equal to your High Septon, Lord Renly,” Joy says as she walks in, eyes narrowed slightly. “Have I interrupted something?”

“Not particularly, Lady Joy. I was just here to see what progress Jon’s made on the letters from the Marches. I’ll take the summaries you’ve got so far, Jon.”

Jon hands them over, and Renly leaves with a thin smile for Joy. Jon is reminded, again, that his father isn’t the only one wary of his wife’s kin. If it bothers Joy, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she takes Renly’s vacated seat, hands folded over the slight swell of her stomach. She does that often and it gives Jon a small jolt every time she does. His child, their child, a proper family that is entirely his in a way neither his father’s family nor his mother’s can ever be.

Joy nudges his foot, playfully. “Stop staring at me like a fool, Snow, and tell me what that was all about, hmm? He wouldn’t have mentioned my grandmother while talking about missives from the Marches.”

“It’s Stannis being gone, and my father. We think…” Jon hesitates, because everyone else wonders about his wife. But Jon knows the way Cersei and Lancel and the other Lannisters who make up Cersei’s circle look at Joy. It’s how Brynden and Edmure Tully and Lady Arryn looked at him when their paths crossed here at court, more or less. “You can’t even tell Tyrek,” he says finally, because Tyrek is the only Lannister he thinks Joy would ever confide in.

“That bad? Don’t worry, he hates political things, but I won’t. What is it?”

“We suspect, Renly and I, that my father thinks Jon Arryn’s death wasn’t sickness but murder, and that Stannis and probably Lady Lysa think so too.”

“Lysa Arryn’s half-mad,” Joy points out.

“But my father and Stannis are not. Even if Father’s suspicion comes from Lady Lysa via his wife…”

“Your stepfather is more likely to have come to the conclusion on his own,” Joy finishes, reaching for the water jug rather than the wine jug and pouring herself a glass of it, then stirring in the mint leaf powder she keeps in a small jar on the table. She’s been drinking more of that than wine since discovering her pregnancy, he’s noticed. “How does my grandmother come into it?”

“Renly heard that Ser Davos is in Lorath, he wondered if she might have heard.”

“Oh, maybe, but there’s not much reason for him to be in Lorath of all places, considering we mostly involve ourselves with Qohor and Norvos and Ibben, rather than the other Free Cities or Westeros. The only…” She pauses. “Unless he sought to hire my uncle. But why would Stannis need a sellsword company?”

“The… Cliff Dragons, yes? That was a risky name choice, from the stories you’ve told me.” He believes her; his cousin is a hidden Targaryen, after all, it’s not implausible that a couple of exiled royals could have started over with a new name in a new place.

“Uncle Faleron likes to take risks,” Joy says, leaning her head back. “By the Lady it’s hot, isn’t it? I’m still not used to it.”

“You and me both,” Jon says ruefully. Though the North had been colder than he remembered, a startling thing. “Why would Ser Davos be hiring a mercenary company?”

“There’s no proof he is, it’s just the only reason I could think of for a Westerosi to be in Lorath. Aside from travel for the sake of it, like my father or the Riverlander my grandmother said fathered my mother. Although I suppose Lord Stannis could be trying to enrich his holdings by opening trade with an area most of Westeros doesn’t trade with? If there turns out to be a market, he could do quite well off it. Mayhaps in our fish sauce, or meads?”

It could be that, but Ser Davos is his stepfather’s most trusted man. He was once a smuggler and Jon thinks a smuggler needs to understand trade, but still, new business doesn’t seem quite the thing Stannis would send Davos for. And considering Dragonstone is closed, it can’t be trade. Could it be for Faleron d’Altari’s men? But why? Security in case Jon Arryn’s assassins came for him? Wouldn’t a personal guard be better for that?

What in seven hells is going on?

\---

 ****  


Rohanne Osgrey’s mother is fond of telling her that in another life, she would be almost a princess. Daughter of the King’s brother, heiress to a more prestigious castle than both of her own. For herself, Rohanne can’t imagine ever loving anything more than she loves the holdings that are hers. And in truth, she would far rather be there than here at court. But she is part of Lady Elinor Tyrell’s household now, and so that isn’t an option for her.

Even considering that she isn’t entirely happy with her situation, she has to admit that the Hand’s tourney is worth seeing. Knights and lords from all over the realm, and a part of her looks at them knowing some are second and third sons, cousins, men who come with a good name but no holdings. Men who look for heiresses to wed. Coldmoat and Standfast aren’t large castles, but they are well-built and strong, and her lands, while again not vast, are productive. Her mother and her uncle reminded her before she left for court that it is her duty to find a husband whose bloodline will make her more secure. Her uncle further told her that she ought to find a man who will improve her rank, but that would mean allowing her lands to be absorbed by someone else.

No. That Rohanne will not allow.

So younger sons and cousins it is. There are so many of them here - several are among the household Lady Elinor brought to court, younger sons of House Tyrell, and otherwise… You can get ten Lannisters for half a groat, it seems, there’s another sighting of golden hair or crimson clothes no matter which way a person turns at this court. There’s also a few possibilities among the retinue the Martell boys brought to court - or there would be if her mother wouldn’t surely turn down a Dornishman. The only one she might have accepted, as Edric Dayne is well-connected, Rohanne doesn’t want because he’s Lord of Starfall in his own right. His cousin Jon Dayne, even better connected by blood, was born a bastard and is wed besides. And in any case, her mother’s never forgiven Ashara Dayne for usurping her in marriage to Stannis Baratheon. There’s at least a baker’s dozen of Freys, but while a few of the girls come to cheer their menfolk on aren’t unattractive - Roslin Frey is delicately pretty, and Alyx Frey has an exotic beauty that makes Rohanne suspect she has Essosi blood - the men are not appealing at all. She herself may have the Florent ears, but she looks like her father did aside from that.

But then, she’ll be at court for the foreseeable future; no need to make a decision now.

Her uncle Erren and her cousin Merrell both ride in the lists, but she doesn’t give a favor to either - she barely knows them, since her uncle lives at Brightwater and her cousin squires on the Arbor. And she’s glad that she didn’t when Merrell falls to Prince Joffrey, who is riding for the first time in this tourney, and then Uncle Erren to Ser Arys of the Kingsguard. The prince wins two tilts - though Rohanne thinks that Tion Frey might have lost on purpose, she can’t quite tell. He loses his third tilt, against his uncle Renly, but Renly Baratheon is knocked off his horse in his next tilt when he rides against the Hound. Joffrey looks murderous all the way back to the royal box, Rohanne notes, but the king claps him on the back and his expression lightens. Lady Elinor’s relief is plain. Already, Rohanne knows, her mistress has had to come to terms with the fact that her prince is temperamental and vicious in fury.

She would not be Elinor Tyrell with this royal match for anything.

Luthor Tyrell wears his sister’s favor but has the rotten luck of facing Jaime Lannister first and is off his horse in a trice. Idly, Rohanne remembers that the master of arms at home calls jousting practice “flying lessons”. Luthor certainly seems to fit that description - perhaps she will tell him so the next time he approaches her with that simpering smile he thinks is charming. But his luck is not the worst of the day’s - that surely must go to a poor boy from the Vale, Ser Hugh, with the misfortune to face Gregor Clegane in his very first tilt. The Mountain’s lance goes past the gorget of the Vale boy’s armor and straight through his throat. He dies only feet from where Rohanne is seated, but she forces herself to look away. He has enough staring eyes in this last moment of life, and death ought to be a private thing. Near them, Lady Sansa Tyrell’s northern companion, Jeyne something or other, goes into hysterics and needs to be led off quietly. But on the other side of Elinor’s party, Rohanne can see Lord Renly, returned to his seat with his wife, muttering quietly and intently with Jon Dayne, who appears to be alone among the young gallants of the court in not jousting.

The day carries on, with knight after knight rolling in the dirt. Tyrek Lannister acquits himself almost as well as his more famous cousin; his third joust, against some Dornish boy with a vaguely familiar black phoenix on bluish-grey for his sigil, ends to no result before Ser Barristan unseats Ser Tyrek and the Kingslayer does for the other one. The Tyrells surrounding Rohanne go almost mad when Ser Loras unseats both Quentyn and Trystane Martell - no surprise, as it was in a joust that their uncle crippled Willas Tyrell, who oddly is one of the few that only claps rather calmly.

At day’s end, there are only four jousters remaining, the brothers Clegane, the Kingslayer, and Loras Tyrell, who tosses white roses to the crowd but has three special ones. A red one for his sister who laughs and leans in to kiss his cheek, a gold for Elinor who beams and tucks it in her hair, and a blue rose for his goodsister Lady Sansa, who laughs as well but shakes her head as she takes the bloom.

It all seems to be some kind of private joke, and for a moment Rohanne wonders what it’s like, to be part of a large family like the Tyrells, or even the Lannisters. Perhaps it’s less lonely. Certainly their halls must be less quiet than her own, for all she loves them.

This is folly, my girl, she tells herself as they make their way to the feast. She can hear the smallfolk’s own parties, loud and raucous along the riverbanks. She isn’t the only one to think they sound happy, it seems; ahead she can see Princess Myrcella pause, head turned toward the river, only moving when her cousin Myrielle chivvies her along.

The prince arrives at their table, sending them all into a flutter. But he is courtesy itself, serving Elinor choice bits of food, even sharing a single wine cup. Rohanne watches them thoughtfully, seeing how Elinor works to be ever charming, to keep the young lion in a pleasant mood. It looks tiring. For herself, she is seated with Lady Aly Bulwer, who is a remarkably cheerful girl two years younger than Rohanne. They share a bedchamber as well, being both technically of higher rank than most of the other girls, and like her Aly knows her duty is to marry well but not too well.

“Lady Oakheart managed it, so can we,” Aly says when she notices Rohanne’s eyes following three of the younger Lannister boys, Tyrek and a pair of identical twins whose names she hasn’t managed to learn yet. “And she never lived at court like we are doing.”

“No, she married a cousin instead, to make sure he didn’t make a play for her seat,” Rohanne points out. “We neither of us have cousins to be such an inconvenient convenience. Or we do, but from the other side of the family.”

“Maybe you should marry Lyonel then, or one of Alla’s three brothers, and I can marry your cousin Merrell. I like his freckles, they make him look sweet.”

“Ask the Redwyne twins about him, I barely know him,” Rohanne says absently, sipping her wine. It’s birch wine, from home - after seeing how much King Robert drank Rohanne had sent home for several casks to offer for the feast, hoping that the King will take a liking to it. If he does, it could lead to better business and more income for her lands.

“Well, it’s a pity I don’t know any Dornishmen - that one keeps looking at you,” Aly comments, and Rohanne looks to where the Dornish party is seated. They’re as far from their own as possible, given that Elinor is Joffrey’s betrothed and Quentyn Martell is Myrcella’s, and Trystane’s to wed the Hand’s younger daughter Arya while his elder daughter is Willas' wife. It’s not either of the princes looking at her, though, it’s the Dornish boy who’d been matched against Tyrek Lannister. With his pale hair, he could almost pass for a dragonlord, like the Velaryon heir and his bastard brother, who Megga Tyrell had declared herself in love with earlier in the evening. She can’t tell what color his eyes are, though.

Not that it matters. He’s just some hedge knight in the service of the Martells and certainly not someone who should take her notice.

Perhaps she ought to talk to one of the younger Lannister boys. She is distant kin to them, after all, so she has an excuse to speak to them, at least.

\---

“I would have expected the Martells to enjoy that scene today,” Tion says carelessly, sprawling in his chair. He has all of Aunt Genna’s easy confidence, Tyrek thinks, and aboslutely none of his “father’s” querulousness. One of many reasons why it’s whispered that he and Red Walder are not, in fact, Emmon Frey’s sons. “After the scene the Tyrell contingent made when Ser Petal knocked the princelings off their horses…”

“Considering what their uncle did to his brother, do you blame them?” Will remarks. At his side, his quieter twin, Martyn, nods in agreement, as always letting his brother speak for both of them. Tyrek sometimes finds that odd, but it seems to work for them.

“I always heard that was Mace Tyrell’s fault, for putting him in a tourney so young,” Tyrek says absently, fiddling with his dagger.

“Oh, and who did you hear that from, Joy?” Tion asks, a mocking edge to his voice. “She’s married now, Tyrek.”

Tion, unfortunately, had been the one Tyrek had once told, when half-drunk and annoyed at the way some of their family treated Joy for being a bastard, that he planned to marry their cousin and make her name as Lannister as her blood. He would have too, and not just for that. Tion, for whatever reason, thinks this is funny.

 ****  


Tyrek is just glad that Tion only knows that. If he knew the entire mess, then, well. It doesn’t bear thinking about, especially not with Cerenna and Lanna having told them about Joy and Cersei’s stand-off. He can guess Joy’s on edge about that because she’s not stupid, but to look at her you’d never know. As far as even he can see, his cousin is a young bride giddy in her first year of marriage, already expecting a child.

 ****  


He tries to tell himself the twist in his stomach lingering from watching Jon and Joy dancing at the closing feast is entirely jealousy. Tion thinks so, that’s why he’s smirking at him. It isn't though, which is entirely the problem. Jealousy he could handle. Jealousy he could live with. But he isn't jealous, not entirely. The others think he doesn't like Jon, but he does. Jon was one of the few who could give Tyrek a run for his money in the practice yard, him and his cousin Edric Dayne. And he and Joy are...

 ****  


They're perfect together. One golden and the other dark, the easy banter between them that he's seen for himself so many times. He hadn't seen them together much before they rode for Winterfell, but he'd been with them almost constantly during the entire trip North and back. And he liked it. He loved it. Because he and Joy know each other just as well, so she would draw him into the teasing and Jon... He just let it happen. Which was odd, because well-matched and friendly as they'd been in the yard, they honestly had never talked much before then.

But now Tyrek knows the stories Jon told on the way to Winterfell, about his Stark siblings, especially Robb and Arya. He knows how the three of them can talk for hours about a dozen different things, and how he should have felt out of place but didn't. He knows that Tion thinks he wants to break them apart somehow but he doesn't. He only wants that rightness to be something he can keep.

He knows that the king used to drag him out to brothels, and often tossed him a handful of coins to go have a little fun himself. Lancel had always sniffed and refused to indulge, saying that it was a bribe to overlook how the king insulted Cersei. Tyrek had often just pocketed the money, but sometimes... So, yes, there had been women. And sometimes, when he dared, there had been... But he can't tell anyone that, so he pretends he never went with anyone at all. (Though the memory of one girl, Marei, who could have passed for a Lannister herself with her white blonde hair and green eyes, can still make Tyrek blush. He called out a name with her... but it wasn't her name.)

He needs air. Standing abruptly, he pushes his way through the crowd and out into one of the gardens. King's Landing air is never fresh, but at least it's less close out here. There's a breeze, and it's quieter, cooler. The music is muted, a boon to his suddenly pounding head. He needs more sleep, he's been getting far too many headaches lately. Of course, he would sleep better if he could avoid dreams. One of the maesters might have a tincture, but he's never been the best liar and he'd rather not admit what kind of dreams he doesn't want to have.

They're familiar, almost - memories, nearly. He and Joy taught each other to kiss, after all, and he still remembers the way she tasted of the ginger candies she used to love. So he dreams of her lips on his and the taste of ginger, of her red-gold hair like silk in his hands. But now, now... Now she's in his arms and there are rough hands at his hips, hands too large to belong to Joy, and someone near as tall as he is pressing in behind him, speaking low in his ear with an accent that is still more Northern than anything else.

He doesn't want to break up what Joy and Jon have. That would be too simple, too easy. What he wants is even more of an impossibility, that somehow there could be an opening in that happiness for him. It doesn't even make sense but by the Seven he wants it more than he's ever wanted anything except when all he wanted was Joy. More than to be better than Jaime, more than to be more than the last of the Lannister boys, more than the secret part of him that wants the Rock.

He drops onto a bench, head in his hands, and he doesn't move until footsteps make him look up. "You look like hell," Jaime Lannister says with his habitual lazy smirk as he crosses the garden to sit next to Tyrek. Tyrek, who cannot think of a single reason for Jaime to have come out here, watches him stretch out his legs. Jaime hadn't attended the feast, and nor had Cersei - probably over the whole mess last night. Yet here he is.

"I just need more sleep," he says, because it's true.

"Hmm. Might be a good idea for you to get that sleep at the Rock, cos."

What? "Why is that?" He can't leave when he can at least be close to... Gods, he's pathetic.

"Trouble's brewing, and you don't want to be on the wrong side of it."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Jaime."

Jaime turns and looks at him, the humor gone. "Joy isn't one of us anymore, Tyrek. She made her choice, and it was hers to make. But she's the wolf boy's wife. You follow her down, there's nowhere for you to go. Think about it."

 **  
** He stands and goes inside, then. Tyrek sits in the growing dark for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's wedding was almost aggressively happy because I ship it but also, well... Canon is terrible, show canon is worse, I applied fanfic liberally.
> 
> Also, what about those Lannister family values, am I right?


	5. Interlude: On the Dothraki Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young dragons among the Dothraki.

“I don't know if she can make it,” Daeron says when they're a week out of Pentos, riding north toward the Forest of Qohor. The three of them are careful to speak in the Lorathi dialect of Valyrian, which, due to the mix of peoples on the island from the days of the Blind God's faith, the Old Lor Moroshi immigrants brought back to their once-homeland, the closeness to Ibben, and the isolation of being on an island, is even closer than the other Free City dialects to becoming its own tongue. It's the safest choice for speaking to each other, given that the Dothraki do not trouble Lorath and neither Daenerys nor Viserys has ever been there. Ser Jorah has visited briefly, he said, but it's unlikely he knows the tongue well.

 

 

Even so they speak quietly, and when the Northern knight is within earshot, they do not discuss important things.

 

 

Aegon looks ahead to where Daenerys' handmaidens are helping her from the saddle, watching her half fall into their arms before being led to her tent, limping. “It's not easy for her. Neither she nor Viserys have done much riding – even we're having a bit of trouble given that we haven't ridden much lately. And the khal...”   
  
  


Khal Drogo is a cruel man, and from what Aegon can tell, the only time he actually notices his bride is when he beds her. It's wrong, a Targaryen princess deserves better – seven hells, any woman deserves better. Daenerys' handmaidens don't deserve to made to cry in the night like he hears, occasionally, and they're not the only ones. He can't understand these Dothraki. In the cities the khals have manses, they all dress in city silks or cottons for the lesser members of the khalasar. He has heard that in Vaes Dothrak there are two great markets, and soon enough he shall see for himself if that is true.

 

 

But here, under the sky, they are something else, primitive and brutal. What they have always been, Aegon supposes, but still, to so easily move between the two worlds... He wonders if he dislikes it or envies it. He wonders if he envies that, for all he calls them brutal, there's also an openness. There is no privacy in the khalasar, not for the meanest slave nor for the khal himself. What is it, to have no secrets?

 

 

His thoughts are foolish, and he tries to disregard them, tries instead to be amused by the way that Daeron has suborned Daenerys' handmaiden Jhiqui, whose job it is to teach Daenerys Dothraki, and from what Aegon can hear he's trying to get the girl to teach him Dothraki legends. No surprise; Daeron loves his books and maps, and any kind of new learning appeals to him. Knowing him, he'll even end up _writing_ a book about the Dothraki if he learns enough.

 

 

Meanwhile, Daemon and Jhogo seem to be making some kind of deal – Aegon can't hear them from where he's settled to sharpen his longsword, but from what he can see he suspects it's got something to do with Jhogo teaching Daemon how to use a whip as a weapon in exchange for knife-throwing lessons. A style of fighting he's unlikely to learn elsewhere is the kind of thing his cousin can't resist, Aegon knows. In the next few weeks he'll probably try and bargain with Aggo for Dothraki-style archery lessons, and with Rakharo or Quaro for arakh lessons. (And if it also gives him a chance to watch the men demonstrate without anyone questioning why he watches, Daemon will consider that an added bonus.)

 

 

And Aegon? He sits quietly and hones his blade, until the handmaiden Irri comes to stand before him. “Khaleesi wants you to eat with her,” she says in somewhat shaky Pentoshi Valyrian. Aegon nods and sheathes his blade before following Irri back to Daenerys' tent. Inside, Daenerys is sitting before a low table spread with food, but the books Ser Jorah gave her at the wedding lay open beside her.

 

 

“I was reading,” she says with a tired little smile. “I thought it might distract me, but the books aren't enough, it seems. I thought you might have some stories of Westeros, Jon Storm.”

 

 

Aegon sits across from her, debating what to say. He does have stories, many stories, from his years of lessons, but many of them would be things that no exiled lord's bastard son would be like to know. “He did, Princess. He used to tell me about your brother.”

 

 

Not often, though. For all that Aegon had pleaded near-constantly as a boy, Jon Connington had not spoken of Rhaegar much. It was as though even saying his name caused Jon pain, and although Aegon longed to hear more, he had come to find that seeing that look in his foster-father's eye was something he hated.

 

 

But Daenerys is perking up, eyes bright with sudden excitement. “He did? Viserys has told me things, of course, but he was such a little boy and our brother lived mostly on Dragonstone, Ser Willem told me when I was little. He liked it better than the court. Do you know why?”

 

 

Aegon nods. “My father told me that too. Your brother thought that the court had too many people who would say anything just to win the king's favor, and he had no patience for it.” It's a diplomatic way of putting it. _“The lickspittles at court encouraged every folly your grandfather had, and did all they could to turn him from your father, his heir and a far better man,”_ was what Jon Connington had actually said about the subject. Shaking off the memory, Aegon continues, “He told me about Dragonstone too. You were born there, but how much do you know of it?”

 

 

Dany tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I know that it's where Aenar Targaryen relocated to on the guidance of his daughter Daenys, that it's where Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-queens lived before they took Westeros. And there must be many gargoyles, because Viserys said several were knocked loose in the storm that happened the night I was born.”

 

 

Aegon nods. “My father said it looks forbidding and dreary, and it often can be. But the sept is a wonder, the statues gilded and bejewelled as befits the place where the Conqueror prayed for success. And Aegon had this map, only it was no normal map. It was a table, they call it the Painted Table, carved in the shape of Westeros. Each Prince of Dragonstone has added to the map, to make it more current with the times.” Has the Usurper's brother Stannis, now Lord of Dragonstone, done the same? Aegon finds himself wondering this, where he never had before.

 

 

“I want to see that one day,” Daenerys whispers. “The books Ser Jorah gave me have maps, but... I don't know Westeros. It's my home, and I don't know it. And out here... It all seems very far away.” She reaches behind herself, and Aegon sees her run her fingers over the dragon eggs Illyrio gave her. At the time, he'd barely thought about it, save for a flash of irritation that he'd never mentioned having dragon eggs, but now...

 

 

Dany's hand lingers on the black with its scarlet swirls, but Aegon's gaze falls on the green, on the bronze flecks that catch the light of the fading sun where it slants through the open tent flap. His fingers itch to hold it, even just to touch it, but he knows it's impossible. As impossible as it is to tell Daenerys who he truly is, to tell her she has one member of her family who will not be cruel as Viserys is.

 

 

To tell her that she is not alone in wishing for a home she does not know. But he cannot, so instead he tells her the story of how Duck left the Seven Kingdoms and became a knight, then teaches her some of the common songs his oh-so-common teacher in fighting had let him learn. (Only when Jon couldn't hear, though since he's supposed to be dead Aegon doesn't mention that part.)

 

 

'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' makes Dany laugh, and Aegon grins, thinking that if he can't tell this aunt who is younger than he is that they are kin, at least they can laugh together.

 

 

\---

 

 

The morning after her fight with Viserys, Dany wakes still wrapped in the sandsilk cloak. Looking at it, she decides that declaring it ruined for a few droplets of stained blood would be a waste of good cloth, and the same for the clothes. And the medallion belt. She isn't certain what she'll do with them, but she'll figure something out.

 

She still holds the green egg as well, the one she's noticed Jon Storm admiring more than once. She herself loves them all but loves the black best. She can't say why, it seems strange because they are all so lovely. She can feel her baby move inside her, as he did last night, like calling to like as the egg lies against her skin and him beneath it.

 

Dany thinks she might lie there all morning, except she hears noise outside her hollow. Laughter, and Valyrian, though not a dialect she knows well. She recognizes it all the same; it's the Lorathi dialect Jon and his cousins Daron and Damon speak, mostly amongst themselves. They sound so cheerful, and it calls to her, as they do. She can't say why; Ser Jorah she understands, because he makes her feel safe and like her he understands what it is to miss home. He gives her good and useful advice.

 

But the d'Altari twins and their half-Westerosi cousin? Well, Jon makes her laugh, it's true, and she can talk with Daeron about books, they both like to read. Daemon she knows less, but she knows even Khal Drogo respects his interest in learning more ways to fight, and she's seen him practicing diligently. And she likes to see them together, to see what family is, even if it makes her sad as well.

 

She climbs out to join them, and on seeing her, Jon offers a hand to help her out. She needs it; she gets bigger almost every day now. “Good morning, khaleesi,” Jon says with a grin. “Join us for breakfast?”

 

“I...” Dany frowns at the food they have spread out. The flat bread covered in cheese isn't so strange, but she's never seen those little fish before, and the eggs look a little odd too.

 

“They're gulls' eggs,” Damon says with a flash of a grin, finishing the staff practice he was doing with a flourish and settling down. “One of the smaller caravans has some Lorathi and Moroshi merchants, a couple of them keep tamed gulls for familiar foods while they're away. The fish are dried where they'd be fresh at home, but not bad for all that. Just be glad we don't have the morning wine,” he adds, wrinkling his nose.

 

“Why not? What's the morning wine?” Dany asks, taking the piece of bread Daron offers her and folding it over the two halves of one of the boiled eggs as he shows her. The one he's eating has one of the fish tucked into it as well, but she decides to wait and see if she even likes the fish first. Bread, cheese, and egg, even gull egg, is more certain.

 

“Wine vinegar and water,” Daron explains, making a face. “They say it encourages people to wake up, which it does, just because it tastes so awful. We prefer mint water, which is also easier to get.” They have a skin of it, and wooden cups. Dany has some, and has to agree that it's much better than wine vinegar and water would be – that's such a ridiculous idea, why would anyone think of that?

 

 

She likes the fish, as it turns out, though they're quite salty. The bread and cheese is the best part – it's goat cheese, which Damon says is because there's no cows near Lorath, the islands are too rocky for anything but goats. “And not as many of those as people might like!” he adds with a laugh. “We do better in Morosh, where it's grassland and the Sarne gives fresh water. Could have cows there, and some do, them or sheep, but goats are what the first settlers knew, so most of 'em still keep to that even after all this time.”

 

 

“We never went to Lorath,” Dany says thoughtfully as they finish their food, Damon stacking the cups together and singing absently in the Lorathi Valyrian. “Once we left Braavos we went south, and just never went north again. At least, not so far. We went to Qohor once, and I remember seeing Lorathi velvets and meads being sold, but that was all.”

 

“Lorath's known for both. That and fish sauce, and not much else,” Jon laughs as he kicks dirt over their makeshift firepit. Daron buries the leftover bits of food so they won't rot and start to smell, humming along to the song his brother still sings. “Oh, and the goddess most of the city worships, the Winged Lady. Most of the city's built into the cliff, or the old mazes, but her temple is free-standing, made all of marble. They say it's lovely.”

 

 

“The old mazes? Who made them?”

 

 

“No one's sure,” Daron says as he dusts off his hands. “We call them the mazemakers, and I've read there's signs of their work in other parts of the world, but... We think they weren't quite human, something like giants, maybe. Whatever they were, they're long gone.”

 

 

Dany's about to ask more about the mazes, or this Winged Lady – she's never heard of her before, though now she thinks about it she remembers hearing the twins and even Jon say things like “By the Lady,” as they rode. Except Damon's soft, clear voice distracts her. The Lorathi dialect is strange, but she thinks he just said... “Were you singing about dragons, just now?” she asks, staring at him.

 

 

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Jon and Daron exchange a look, though she can't see their expressions. Damon shrugs, offering her the same cheerfully mischievous grin she remembers seeing him give Viserys and Ser Jorah at her wedding. “Lorath has a few exports, a goddess most of the world thinks is strange, and a lot of mad tales. One of them is that we have dragons hiding in our cliffs. It's silly, but I've always liked the song. It's no more mad than the Qartheen saying dragons hatched from a second moon that got too close to the sun, don't you think?”

 

 

No, Dany supposes not. She almost wishes it were true, though, because if Lorath had dragons in its cliffs, that would be so nice. It would mean they weren't gone after all. She's lost enough in the thought that she barely notices Jon pushing his bangs out of his eyes, revealing the deep widow's peak of his hairline... and the silver-blond edging the blue.

 

 

It's only later, when her handmaidens are helping her bathe, that she stops to think about it. Under the blue hair dye, Jon looks like he might have hair the same color as she does, or Viserys. Targaryen hair, to go with his Targaryen eyes, and his cousins'. No, she reminds herself, _Valyrian_ hair and eyes. She's seen Lys, and the Volantenes of the Old Blood who live behind their Black Wall. She'd liked it, when they were in Lys – Volantis had been uncomfortable in ways Dany still can't name – because she could imagine that she and Viserys belonged there when so many people resembled them a little.

 

 

The boys said themselves that they're of Valyrian stock, it's why they have purple eyes. Still... How much like a Targaryen would Jon look, if he didn't dye his hair? She can't help but wonder.

 

Perhaps that's why, when she gives Damon the medallion belt and Daron the sandsilk cloak, she gives Jon the vest painted with red dragons.

 

 

\---

 

 

The Dothraki eye Daeron with his quill oddly – some of them are literate, he's sure, and most of them are familiar with writing even if they can't do it, but he imagines it must be odd to see someone scribbling away in the middle of the camped khalasar, here in Vaes Dothrak. Especially as most of them are heading for the feasting hall, to celebrate Dany's success with the horse heart ritual. Daeron, meanwhile, is recording the ceremony, and the prophecy for Dany's child, Rhaego.

 

 

He wants to talk to the _dosh khaleen_ , but he's not sure they'd welcome him. He wants to know more about this city where no khalasar may fight another, wants to understand this culture so utterly dominated by the men that yet relies on women to safeguard its heart. Specific women, yes, widows of khals, but even so. It's fascinating.

 

 

Aegon and Daemon tease him about the fact that he's taking so many notes, but Daeron doesn't let it bother him. His king and his brother can laugh all they like, and can pursue their own interests, though Aegon's at least seems doomed. He says, and probably still believes, that he seeks out Daenerys only to befriend her, to bond with at least one of the remaining members of his immediate family, but Daeron rather thinks otherwise. And Daemon, well, learning new ways of fighting has him right at home among the Dothraki.

 

 

But Daeron has always wanted to know the why of men and women, the ways things work and how each place is different from another. Ever curious, always with his nose in a book, this is the real world for once, where he can learn and see things as they happen.

 

 

And what he sees is that Khal Drogo has little intention of ever really going to Westeros. The Dothraki hate and fear the sea, and their scorn for Viserys grows by the day. Ser Jorah told Daenerys that Khal Drogo saw her as a gift, and will give Viserys a gift in return, rather than a direct trade, but... Does a khal give a gift to one he scorns, even if he has already received a gift from them? It seems to Daeron that if Dothraki honor requires that Drogo does give Viserys something, and from what he's learned it does indeed seem to, it won't be the thing he wants above all. After all, in a trade, one can set a price, but if you give a gift, the gift you get as thanks might not be what you were hoping for.

 

 

Has Viserys thought of that? Daeron would bet a good sum that Illyrio has. Aegon told him and Daemon about what Illyrio had begun to say, about Viserys and Daenerys, that “they will not...” something. Will not come west, will not live at all? All this could very well be just a ploy, one to get Viserys out of the way. Daeron would think it one to get rid of Daenerys too, except that they need her, don't they? Aegon's identity can be questioned, almost certainly will be by anyone seeking to discredit his claim to the Iron Throne. They all thought it strange that Illyrio didn't marry her to Aegon in the first place. Perhaps they want her gone too, so there are no better Targaryen candidates, so Aegon is free to marry a Westerosi bride who will bring him support? The Usurper's daughter, perhaps, so as to claim that Aegon's heir is also the heir of the Baratheon claimants?

 

 

Except... There are the dragon eggs. Why give Daenerys dragon eggs for no reason? Daemon suggested maybe the three of them are supposed to steal them, but given that they weren't supposed to be here that seems impossible. It's all so convoluted, it's no wonder than none of them are entirely sure what to make of it all.

 

 

Daeron sighs, shaking the thoughts away and focusing again on his writing. When he's done, he means to join the others at the feast, but he stops cold at the sight of Viserys slipping into the hollow where Daenerys sleeps, Ser Jorah following only minutes later. Neither of them see Daeron, but he doesn't like this. He doesn't like this at all, and so he creeps closer, to where he can hear what they're saying.

 

 

“They don't belong to you,” Jorah says, voice quiet but firm. Is Viserys stealing something?

 

 

“Whatever is hers is also mine.” So, yes, he's taking something that belongs to Daenerys. But what could he... Oh. Of course. Many of Daenerys' wedding gifts have value, but most of them aren't worth enough for Viserys to bother stealing. Only...

 

 

“Once, perhaps,” Jorah says, and Daeron can hear rustles as they move, though he can't begin to guess at any details.

 

 

“If I sell one egg, I'll have enough to buy a ship. Two eggs... A ship and an army.” The dragon eggs. By the Lady... Well, it's no surprise; Daeron had already guessed that was Viserys' purpose. Especially as Daenerys probably would have given him anything else willingly. And, knowing her, she'd say the same of the eggs, but... He's seen her watching them, running her fingers over them. And he's seen the way Aegon stares at the green one, half-entranced. _Maybe I'm not Targaryen enough for that, and I'm grateful._

 

 

“And you have all three,” Jorah says.

 

 

“I need a large army,” Viserys says, voice a little snippy now. He needs more than a large army, Daeron knows. He'll need multiple ships as well, though he doesn't seem to realize it. Should they help him? Should he get Aegon and Daemon, and help Viserys escape? It might get them to Westeros faster... But no. Viserys is unstable, untrustworthy. Speed will gain them nothing with such as him in their party.

 

 

Viserys is still talking, though, and his words make something twist in Daeron's chest; sympathy despite his scorn for his king's uncle. “I'm the last hope of a dynasty, Mormont. The greatest dynasty this world has ever seen on my shoulders since I was five years old-- and no one has ever given me what they gave to her in that tent. Never. Not a piece of it. How can I carry what I need to carry without it? Hmm? Who can rule without wealth or fear or love? Oh, you stand there, all nobility and honor. You don't think I see you looking at my little sister, hmm? Don't think I know what you want? I don't care. You can have her. She can be Queen of the savages and dine on the finest bloody horseparts, and you can dine on whichever parts of her you like. But let me go.”

 

 

He has a point, Daeron thinks. Viserys is not the last hope of House Targaryen no more than the Targaryen line is the greatest of dynasties, but he doesn't know the former and the latter is understandable pride. That pride is probably all that's kept him going, after all. Really, they should have taken Viserys and Daenerys in all along. Brought them to Lorath, where they had kin, however distant by now. He was just a toddler in Morosh then, not even Lorath, but he has to wonder why they didn't. Was it just the old resentments?

 

And is Viserys right about Jorah? He thinks he might be, though the Northern knight is hard to read. Also, that's not really Daeron's business, is it?

 

 

“You can go,” Jorah is saying, and if Viserys' words struck home, he gives no sign of it. “You can't have the eggs.”

 

 

“You swore an oath to me. Does loyalty mean nothing to you?”

 

 

“It means everything to me.” No surprise, with what Haldon's taught them about the North and their honor.

 

 

“And yet here you stand.”

 

 

“Here I stand.”

 

 

In the pause that follows, it occurs to Daeron that one of the men is probably going to leave the hollow soon, and he'd best be away from here before they do. He scrambles away, and heads for the feasting hall.

 

 

In their little corner of one of the long tables, Daeron, his twin, and his king discuss what he'd heard in low voices, trying to think what it may mean. Aegon wants to tell Viserys and Daenerys the truth now, so that Viserys will calm down and they can form a plan.

 

 

“Are you mad? He's like to kill you for daring to usurp him,” Daemon says sharply.

 

 

“Maybe if they knew they weren't alone, then he would -”  Aegon stops talking abruptly, staring at Viserys as he stumbles in, drunk and waving a sword. Oh no...

 

 

They both have to stop Aegon from leaping to Daenerys' defense when Viserys threatens her, and of course there was no need of his help. There's something heartbreaking about the moment when Viserys thinks the 'crown' Drogo will give him is a good thing, especially as he's the only one who doesn't realize...

 

 

Daenerys watches, maybe, and he thinks Aegon and Daemon do too. Daeron does not. He turns his eyes to the sky, trying to ignore the brief agonized screams. Aegon is king indeed now, he supposes, but it seems to him that death shouldn't be something the whole world watches you face, whatever you may have done.

 

 

And all this could have been avoided, in so many ways. Senseless, needless, and Daeron refuses to watch like some show.

 

 

\---

 

Daeron's at the Eastern Market again, and no surprise there, really. There's a few people peddling scrolls and books, so of course that's where Daemon's bookish twin will be. It's a wonder that they look identical, he often thinks, given how different they are. Daeron's no slouch in fighting, true, and Daemon plays the fool but he is far from it, and yet given the choice Daeron would study all day and Daemon would never be without a weapon in his hand.

 

 

Vaes Dothrak makes him edgy, in that way. All he is permitted here is a staff, and the whip he's still learning to use. Not that he doesn't enjoy the whip; it's a different movement of his arm, so that it aches after hours of practice. But a good ache, the best kind; the ache of work well done. Still, he misses his sword, and more than that he desperately misses his daggers.

 

 

“You would rather have those daggers than women,” Quaro had observed the other night, laughing at the foolish outsider. Daemon had laughed with them, because to do anything else would have been strange. But his insides had squirmed uncomfortably all the while. Daggers, after all, aren't the only thing Daemon prefers to women. As Elian knows.

 

 

Elian is the whole reason Daemon's at the Western Market at all instead of with Daenerys. She goes to the Eastern Market often enough as well, which means so do her protectors. Aegon and Ser Jorah are always there right alongside her bloodriders, and actually Daemon likes those trips as well. It's an interesting place, and it reminds him of the Eastern Bazaar back home in Morosh. And back home in Morosh is how he knows Elian. One of the merchant caravans here is from home, and the sight of his old friend had been a thrill Daemon didn't expect.

 

 

Elian isn't the first lover he's had, as Daeron and Aegon know, but he's always had to be discreet. His mother probably wouldn't have much to say; septa or no Lemore d'Altari is a Lorathi, reared in the faith of the Lady, and that faith is an open minded one. Love, like a child, is a gift, and should be treated as such. But Griff... If Griff thought Daemon were corrupting Aegon in any way, he'd be out on his ear.

 

 

So he keeps it quiet. He sneaks looks at men when he can, takes lovers when he has the chance, and leaves it at that.

 

 

He's slipping from the covered wagon that serves as Elian's sleeping quarters when his caravan travels when he notices Ser Jorah making his way across the market, face dark and worried. There's something wrong there, Daemon thinks, falling into step with him. “Ser Jorah, I'm surprised to see you away from our princess!” After all, even before Viserys' death the exiled knight was Daenerys' shadow, despite being sworn to Viserys, and now he is always beside her.

 

 

“I wished to speak to the leader of the newest caravan to arrive, to see if he had letters for me and to learn news of the outside world,” Ser Jorah says, gruff and biting. Daemon ignores the unpleasant tone, because there is something wrong here.

 

 

“I take it there was bad news, ser? I hope it wasn't of your family, or...”

 

 

“No. The Usurper has offered a lordship to anyone who kills the khaleesi or her brother.”

 

 

Wait, does that mean technically Robert Baratheon owes Khal Drogo a title? Daemon would like to see that conversation. Still, black humor aside, this news is deeply unwelcome. Especially given Aegon's proximity to Daenerys – he is all the d'Altari have, at this point. It's been too long, their claim still exists but who will remember it? They're too Lorathi now, a thing Rion and Daena did not predict, he thinks.

 

 

They need Aegon, their heir who unites claims, and he needs Daenerys to shore up _his_ claim – what that means for Khal Drogo Daemon doesn't know, though the baby should be safe enough given the family tradition of intermarriage. Rhaego's no threat.

 

 

He has no time to think further on the issue, because they find Daenerys, her handmaids, _khas_ , and Aegon by a wineseller, just as he hands over a cask of wine. Daemon doesn't know what makes Jorah suspect, but his insistence on opening the cask now proves he does suspect. And, watching, listening to the wineseller hesitate, try to talk Jorah out of it with snide comments that somehow ring hollow...

 

 

He pulls Aegon back to tell him in a low voice what's happened, watches his king's fists clench. Of course. He knows the only reason he's not included in the bounty is because they don't know about him. He knows that this Usurper King has killed a mother and her child before, or at least smiled on those who did it.

 

 

Aegon catches Daenerys when the wineseller's thrown cask knocks her aside, his arms wrapping around her as if she is his to protect. That's a problem at the moment, though maybe not forever. Daemon barely has time to think on it anyway, instinctively leaping after the fleeing would-be assassin. Jhogo's whip pulls him to the ground, but it's Daemon's weight that keeps him there.

 

 

But later that night, with Khal Drogo's vow still ringing in his ears, he wonders if, maybe, they should have let him, at least, drink the wine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, why was Dany attacked without seeing Ned quit his job over it? Simple. In this verse, Varys didn't want to risk Robert's rages sending a real assassin after Dany with Aegon right there. So, he didn't say anything, but told Jorah Robert put a bounty on her, so that when Varys' meant-to-fail assassin came, he'd be ready.


	6. If I Could Fly, Then I Would Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions abound, and even as people approach the answers, it seems they're left only with more troubles.

“Why didn't you tell me?” It's all Catelyn can think to say, staring at her brother in horror. “He's been ailing for _months_ and you didn't send a raven? And you don't even tell me right away, we have both days of the tourney and you flirting with that Frey girl, how could you -”

 

 

“He ordered me not to, Cat,” Edmure says, face and voice grim. “Ravens can be intercepted, he said, and the last thing he wanted was for the wrong people to find out he was sick. You know the Lannisters would leap at the chance to take the borderlands if they thought they had a good chance of success. I waited till after the tourney so we'd seem normal. I've had practice at pretending all's well by now; you haven't. It didn't seem fair to ask it of you.”

 

 

The Lannisters again. They kill her sister's husband, and now they're the reason Catelyn didn't know that her beloved father was sick until now, and from what Edmure's just told her... It sounds almost like it's been left too late. “I have to go to the Vale,” she says, and hates herself for it. What she wants to do now is go right to Riverrun with her brother and her son, but she can't. She has to speak to Lysa, she promised Ned that she would. “There's things Lysa and I need to discuss, but I'll bring her and Uncle Brynden back with me.”

 

 

Edmure laughs, a sound that's surprisingly harsh coming from her well-meaning but foolish brother. “Uncle Brynden maybe, but not Lysa. She's never visited home once, not in all this time, and she certainly lived a good bit closer than you did when she was here at court.”

 

 

“She was so often pregnant, or recovering from a miscarriage...” Cat says cautiously, but Edmure shakes his head.

 

 

“Robert was her second-last pregnancy; the last was another miscarriage when he was only a few years old. And she wouldn't let him visit either; Lord Stannis allowed him to write to Father and to me, and he said that he wished to come, but while Lord Stannis was his foster father the Dragonstone Baratheons thought it best to respect Lysa's wishes. One of the concessions she talked Jon Arryn into when he insisted on the fosterage was that he _not_ visit Riverrun, or so I was told.”

 

 

What? Why would Lysa... Cat remembers how angry her sister had been with their father during the Rebellion, for the marriage to a man so much older than she was. Or, no, it had begun before that, when Petyr was sent away. Lysa had alternated in those days between raging at everyone and collapsing into floods of tears, but with Father she had shown a colder sort of fury, one that had only increased once she was wed. Catelyn had thought, at the time, that it was just girlish hurt, and that it would pass. Has Lysa really let it go on so long? So long that she has denied their father the chance to see his grandson?

 

 

So long that she will indeed refuse to come say goodbye with Catelyn as Edmure says?

 

 

No, that can't be right. Because if that's true then... Then what? She cannot say why, but somehow this bothers her, and not just because she can't see what her father could have done to deserve such a long-term coldness. If Lysa can be so cold to one member of her family, hurting both their father – who may deserve some of Lysa's rage even if Catelyn can't see why – and her son, then...

 

 

No. This is all some misunderstanding, it's some grudge that can be fixed if they just try to work it out. Which decides it, really. Catelyn will say farewell to her husband and children, then take ship for Gulltown. She'll go to the Eyrie, talk to Lysa, find out what she knows about her husband's murder and then talk her into coming along to Riverrun so she and Father can make peace.

 

 

And once they have done that, once Catelyn has fulfilled the first of her family's words, then... Then they will come together, she and Lysa and Ned, mayhaps even Stannis Baratheon. They will be able to put together what they know, and then... Then the Lannisters will fall and all will be as it should be.

 

 

So she says nothing of her fears, not to Edmure when he leaves, taking Bran with him. It's more painful than she'd guessed, to watch her son riding away from her, though there's a comfort in knowing he's going to her own childhood home. Ned had suggested Bran squire at White Harbour, especially since until Robb has a son, there are those in the North who see Bran and not little Lyarra as Robb's heir. It had been Catelyn who pushed for her son to go to Riverrun, and it is a comfort.

 

 

And she says nothing to Ned when she leaves him and Rickon at court, which is at least as painful as watching Bran ride away. Instead Ned holds her and she tries to banish a sudden unreasoning fear. She wants to ask him to promise they'll see each other soon, but of course they will. “I'll bring Lysa down from the Eyrie. My uncle won't be able to watch over young Robin this time, not if he's to see Father before... But there's Lord Royce, he's a good man. I will speak to Lysa and she will tell me what she knows, then you can speak to King Robert.. It won't be long before all this is over,” she says, and wonders if those last words are meant for Ned or herself.

 

 

Because Catelyn cannot shake the feeling that they are missing something, and that whatever it is could prove to be the greatest danger of all.

 

 

\---

 

 

“So how was it at the edge of the world?” Renly asks, and Tyrion shrugs, sipping his wine. One thing he can say for his old friend, Renly usually has good wines on hand. And for once they're alone, Renly's wife and paramour and squire turned assistant all elsewhere. Not that Tyrion has anything in particular against any of them, but he doesn't really understand how Renly always seems to have at least one of them about these days. Never having time alone would drive Tyrion mad.

 

 

“Cold as a septa's bed,” he tells him. “I did manage to piss off the edge of the Wall and annoy Benjen Stark, though, so that's something. Your old squire favors his uncle a good bit in looks, it was like riding with a grouchier, older Jon Dayne. Be thankful you got your wolf before his sense of humor froze into nothing.”

 

 

“That seems to run in the family, Robert's precious Ned doesn't have much mirth to him either,” Renly says, sprawled in his chair in a careless way only those who are tall and handsome can manage. Tyrion's brother can do it; Tyrion himself certainly cannot. Sometimes he wonders why he lets himself be so fond of someone whose very presence reminds him so forcefully of all he isn't – Jaime doesn't count, Tyrion can't help but love his brother. But then, he can't entirely help his fondness for Renly either, really.

 

 

“So is Stannis still brooding on Dragonstone?” he asks, keeping his voice mild rather than mocking. Stannis Baratheon is easy to mock, but not in front of his little brother, Tyrion's learned. He also can't help but notice the way that Cersei seems almost... jumpy, when Stannis is brought up, mostly when they were on the way to Winterfell and Robert kept jesting about it. Jon Arryn dies and Stannis leaves court, and Cersei goes tense, for those who know her well enough to see it. Curious, that.

 

 

There is, of course, one very big secret Cersei is keeping that would have her so worried. Three children, all golden-haired and green-eyed... Tyrion's always wondered. Oh, he's never been _certain_ – he knows about his brother and sister, of course, but he's never truly been sure who fathered those children. He'd always rather hoped Robert at least fathered Joffrey. Not that it matters – once a queen is known to commit adultery, her children are suspect unless they are the very image of her husband, which not one of them are. Odds are they're Jaime's, but even if they are Robert's they don't _look_ it, so if the secret gets out who would trust it?

 

 

The question is, did Jon Arryn suspect it, and does Stannis, or is Cersei just being paranoid in that way she gets? The bigger question at this particular moment is, does Renly know? And if he does, what exactly is Tyrion supposed to do about it? Renly is his friend, yes, but his family...

 

 

_And what have any of them but Jaime ever done for me? But without them, I have less than nothing._

 

 

Renly's blue-green eyes are more blue today thanks to the dark purple of his tunic, and hard when they fix on Tyrion. “He's still there, yes. Do you think brooding is all he's up to, cub?”

 

 

“How should I know, fawn?” Tyrion asks, his voice as even as Renly's. Behind it, though, there's a certain regret. They've been friends a long time, he and Renly Baratheon. Renly knows more of the story about Tysha than anyone but Jaime. Not all of it, but enough. Tyrion's the first one who knew about Renly and Loras, before Loras even knew. Long years of secrets and conversations, of pestering Lady Ashara when they were boys and mocking everyone at court as they grew into men. But he senses the days of that friendship are coming to an end.

 

 

One more debt to lay at Cersei's door – Jaime's too, really, though it's hardly on Jaime that Cersei couldn't swallow her pride and hate enough to have good sense. _One_ child who looked like Robert, it wouldn't have even had to be the firstborn, _one_ child to knock everyone off the scent they're almost certainly on. But she couldn't, and so here they are, teetering on the edge of the bloody abyss. And here he is, offering up a little more for the sake of a family that would far rather he never lived at all.

 

 

He leaves Renly soon after that, taking the arrival of Loras as his excuse. Still unhappy, he heads for the royal library instead. In this reign it's all but unoccupied; the only members of the royal family who spend much time here are Myrcella and Shireen. Shireen is on Dragonstone with her parents, and Myrcella is on the ship to Dorne with her household. Most of the courtiers certainly wouldn't touch a book unless they had to. He's run into Willas Tyrell or his young bride Sansa Stark among the shelves before, they both seem to wind up here when they visit court, but so far as he's heard they're currently on the way back to Highgarden.

 

 

So Tyrion expects to be alone, save for the odd septon or lesser maester – it's the usual order of things. It turns out he's wrong, though, when he sees a girl tucked in the window seat. She's thirteen or fourteen, he'd wager, well-dressed enough to be a noble girl of some means. Big ears like that, she's probably part Florent. One of Elinor Tyrell's ladies? There's a lion pattern on the embroidery of her skirt hem; Cersei won't like that, no one is allowed... Except that's a green lion on black and silver chequy, and that seems almost familiar.

 

 

Ah. How could he have forgotten? Grandfather Tytos' half-brother, a minor Reach lord of decent means, whose sigil happened to be exactly that combination. House Osgrey of... Coldmoat and Standfast, that's it. A pretty thing in spite of the ears, he decides, considering her. And his very own cousin, albeit a somewhat distant one. Now that he thinks about it, didn't Uncle Stafford and his brood go to Coldmoat for Gareth Osgrey's wedding to Selyse Florent, since he'd once been Stafford's squire? This must be his daughter and heir, Rohanne. He thinks he might have heard her being discussed as a possible wife for one of the boys – Tyrek or one of Uncle Kevan's twins.

 

 

_She has Lannister eyes_ , he thinks when the girl looks up. Bright green set in a freckled face, quite a lot like the one of the woman who stands next to Lord Gerold in the painting in the Golden Gallery back at the Rock. “Well met, cousin,” he calls cheerily, wondering if she'll flinch away from him. She doesn't, but then she's likely grown up surrounded by Florents. And most of them are ugly.

 

 

“Well met, Lord Tyrion. I think you're the first Lannister to call me that – it's a distant relation at this point, is it not?” she asks, watching him over the top of her book.

 

 

“Oh, indeed, but any lion has to be family,” he tells her, voice dry. “And any of us who know Lady Rohanne's portrait would have to admit you're kin.”

 

 

“Except for the ears, my lord,” Rohanne Osgrey tells him with a wry smile, and Tyrion is about to say something else when Megga Tyrell comes in looking for her, with some ramble about Elinor and Joffrey. Tyrion can guess whatever happened wasn't exactly pleasant, and would rather not know the details since there isn't exactly much he can do about it.

 

 

Poor girl. Although if he's right about Stannis, the Tyrells won't go against the side Renly's on with Loras and Margaery tied to him, so maybe little Lady Elinor will be lucky enough not to marry Joffrey after all. A pity; marrying him into the Reach isn't a bad idea, but there just aren't many who would go against the Tyrells if it comes to it... Are there?

 

 

Almost idly, the book he picks up is a history of the Reach. He learned a great deal of it already in his childhood studies, but he thinks it might well be time to refresh his memory.

 

 

\---

 

 

She really shouldn't be relieved that they're all seasick, Myrcella knows. And it's not that she doesn't feel for her septa, or for Myrielle and Rosamund. It's just that it's _glorious_ to be out from under their eye, even if it only lasts till they recover or the ship makes landfall. Whichever comes first. Arya Stark and Alla Tyrell have taken to the ship as easily as Myrcella herself has, so she's not entirely without companions. But they're perfectly content to leave her to her own devices, caught up in each other's company as they are. Myrcella wonders what it's like to have a friend like that – the two of them are so different, one with a thin sword like a needle and the other with a lap loom, yet they sit talking for hours with Arya's wonderful wolf lying nearby.

 

 

It's convenient for them that their future husbands seem to be as good friends as they are. If Arya and Alla are joined at the hip, then Trystane Martell and Edric Dayne are each other's shadow. They even finish each other's sentences, which is odd since she knows Edric's lived mostly at court for years, squiring with Lord Dondarrion. Aunt Ashara asked Uncle Renly to get him a place, she thinks.

 

 

And she'd rather be married to either of them any day, because at least they have spirit. She's watched them sparring across the deck, including Arya in it sometimes while Alla calls out commentary from the sidelines. Meanwhile, her own betrothed has nothing for her but too-careful courtesies. It's not that there's anything wrong with Quentyn, it's just that he's like so many people. He doesn't seem to understand that what Myrcella wants is to have _people_ around her, not courtiers.

 

 

Tommen is just the same, though since he's much shyer it bothers him less than it does her. Still, one of the reasons he took so quickly to Rickon Stark is because the younger boy treats him like just another playmate. When Myrcella took her true leave of her little brother, in private, the boys were sitting on the floor tugging a rope in play with Rickon's wolf, Shaggydog.

 

 

That's the memory she holds close when she misses Tommen, not the formal good-bye at the docks with tears on his face and a lump in her throat. That doesn't count, it was just another show. Joffrey she'd be happy to never see again, and as for her parents... She should miss them, but Mother's focus has always been Joffrey, and Father likes his wine and the women Myrcella's not supposed to know about. There just isn't much to miss.

 

 

But Quentyn! He's nice enough, he answers all her questions about Dorne, though apparently he didn't grow up in Sunspear and so he tells her if she wants to know about the Martell ancestral castle she should ask Trystane. But his smiles don't reach his eyes and he's always so tense around her! His companions aren't so bad. Cletus Yronwood japes as easily as Uncle Tyrion, which helps Myrcella relax around him. And as for Alesander Altari...

 

 

She shouldn't think about him at all, not when he's easily one of the most beautiful young men she's ever seen.

 

 

Shaking her head, Myrcella goes to the rail, leaning out as far as she dares to stare into the ocean depths. The sea breeze pulls the pins from her hair, but she doesn't bother to try and collect them. She'd rather lean out with the wind whipping her curls, so she can imagine she's traveling the world instead of being shipped off to her marriage. She could be like Uncle Gerion, off on a quest to Valyria, right out of the songs. Or even better, she's not sailing on the ocean but flying over it on a dragon.

 

 

It's all Uncle Tyrion's fault that she likes that daydream so much. He loves dragons, and when Myrcella was little, as short as her tiny uncle, they'd slipped off to the dungeons and the dragon skulls together. It wasn't the only time Uncle Tyrion had taken her, or sometimes Tommen, off on some adventure, telling them that being small had its advantages. And it had; they'd been able to slip off without anyone so much as noticing. Except the septa, but how could she gainsay her charges' uncle? And when they went to the dragon skulls, her uncle had been full of all the stories he'd read over the years. Then he'd let her read all the books he'd read on dragons, bringing them from the Rock's library before the pair of them hunted up more at the Red Keep.

 

 

Anyone can be tall on the back of a dragon, Uncle Tyrion had told her. Myrcella thinks that for her, it's more to the point that on the back of a dragon, anyone can be free. And she wants that more than anything else in this world – because if she were free, then she could _see_ the world.

 

 

“Do be careful, Princess. You could tumble into the water, leaning out like that.” Someone steadies her, and Myrcella knows the voice, Dornish drawl with just a hint of something else that reminds her of cousin Joy's accent. Alesander Altari smiles at her, silvery-blond hair falling into his blue eyes. “I don't think my cousin wants to lose his bride in such a way.”

 

 

“No, but I imagine he'd be happy enough to lose me some less dramatic way,” Myrcella says before she can stop herself.

 

 

“Oh, that's – ”

 

 

“Don't lie to me, Master Altari,” Myrcella says, tossing her head. “I've grown up at court, I know all about liars and I don't think you're a very good one. Your cousin the prince is very kind, very courteous, and he doesn't want to marry me at all. Was he in love with someone else, or is it just my grandfather's legacy?”

 

 

“There w- Quentyn will be good to you, Princess,” Alesander says, looking uncomfortable. “How could he not? Quentyn is just shy, he takes time before he can relax with someone. Especially someone as lovely and charming as you, Your Highness.”

 

 

“You don't seem tense,” Myrcella fires back, though she knows that some people are just as Alesander describes them. She's annoyed by the idea of marriage to someone who doesn't want her, and anyway, apparently Quentyn _is_ in love with someone else, though his cousin caught himself before actually saying the words. Her mother wasn't enough, in all her beauty, to erase Lyanna Stark for her father. Myrcella knows herself to be a warmer person by far than her coldly beautiful mother, but even so... Isn't it enough that she has to cope with the end of the war, the thing all blame her grandfather for?

 

 

After all, that is the whole reason for this marriage, Myrcella knows. _“We are fixing the mistakes of the war, you know, you and I and Arya too,”_ Lady Allyria had told Myrcella, when she'd followed through on her plan to talk to the younger Lady of Winterfell. Lady Allyria married Lord Robb because Lord Stark broke his betrothal to Myrcella's Aunt Ashara, and she is marrying Prince Quentyn because, as Uncle Tyrion said once, they owe the Martells a princess. Arya Stark, well – Lyanna was a victim of Prince Rhaegar, not to blame for the fact that his actions shamed Elia Martell, and the story goes that Lord Stark was the only one to speak against the deaths of Elia and her children. But the Starks are still key supporters of her father's rule, they are in fact the truest symbol of the rebellion, the rebel family that suffered the most. A link between them and the Martells is symbolic of healing the realm.

 

 

“I am a nobody, Your Highness,” Alesander tells her, his voice cutting into her thoughts. “I have no need to be tense with you or anyone else, as I am so low that you can hardly regard me at all.” The words are technically true – although the Altaris are kin to Prince Doran's late, foreign-born father, the head of the family is only a landed knight. Myrcella memorized things like this when her septa drilled her in the houses of Dorne. But there are times when connections count for more than rank, and this is one of them. She knows that Alesander was Quentyn's companion since they were small children, that he is one of his cousin's closest friends. While Quentyn won't inherit Dorne, it's still an important link.

 

 

She's been told that Prince Doran plans to grant his elder son lands somewhere in Dorne, given his exalted marriage. It was part of the contract, though the lands have not yet been specified. She's heard mention of an island in the Sea of Dorne, but cannot say if it's true. They say Prince Trystane too will be granted a keep, not too far from the Dayne stronghold of Starfall. And so this generation of Martells will spawn two cadet branches – perhaps Prince Doran fears his line failing if he does not, given his brother's reluctance to sire trueborn children? – with wives of equally storied Houses. And here, tied to it all, is a young 'nobody'.

 

 

A nobody whose company is far more agreeable than that of his princely cousin, Myrcella has to admit to herself as she's drawn away from the rail, into further conversation with Alesander as Arya and Alla join them. It isn't something she should allow herself to consider.

 

 

\---

 

 

“So now Lady Catelyn is gone as well,” Margaery says thoughtfully. Loras and Aislinn are side by side on the bed Margaery occasionally shares with Renly – her brother is there far more often – lying innocent as children, Loras' hands folded under his head. Renly's pacing over by the window, while Margaery and Jon sit in chairs near the hearth. “There's rumors that her father is ill, but Willas and Sansa told me she said she was going to the Vale.”

 

 

“So maybe she just wants to visit her sister first. They can then go to their father together – and Ser Brynden Tully's in the Vale as well, he's the Knight of the Gate. Perhaps he and his brother will finally reconcile?” Loras suggests. Trust her brother to know the details of such a storied warrior as Brynden Tully.

 

 

“No, that doesn't make sense,” Aislinn objects. “I haven't had near the learning as the rest of you, but seems to me that's a long trip to make when she can just send her sister and uncle a letter.”

 

 

“That won't help – Lady Lysa's closed off the Vale, and I'm not even sure she's getting letters. Shireen wrote me that Robin hasn't replied to one of her messages. They adore each other; there's no way he'd have missed all of them. One or two maybe, if he was taken ill, but not all of them. Lady Catelyn and I avoided each other, but I know enough of her to say that if her father is ill, it makes perfect sense that she'd go herself. It would be the best way to ensure her sister knows, and she loves her family,” Jon says, shaking his head.

 

 

There's an edge there, a bitterness, but that's not a surprise so Margaery ignores it to focus on the practicalities. “Lady Lysa was never close with her husband, was she? They never seemed at all at ease with each other.” Actually, Lysa Tully Arryn hadn't seemed at ease with anyone at all, except maybe Lord Petyr, who was a childhood friend. Lysa had seemed _more_ than comfortable with him, if Margaery was any judge, blue eyes exactly like Sansa's tracking the Master of Coin whenever she thought herself unobserved. Rather like Lord Petyr's gaze has seemed to follow Lady Stark, actually.

 

 

Unsettling, that. Of course, there is that rumor, the one about Lord Petyr having both Tully girls' maidenhoods. Even if it's true, Margaery has no room to criticize, of course, and at any rate she can't see what old scandals have to do with anything now.

 

 

“No, they weren't close,” Renly says, turning to face them, hands braced on the windowsill. “Why?”

 

 

“Well, it all keeps coming back to Jon Arryn and your brother Stannis,” she explains. “Lord Stark seems to be retracing Lord Arryn's footsteps, and the only one we know was also involved in _that_ was Stannis. If Lady Lysa was close to her husband, then I'd say perhaps she knows something, but...”

 

 

“It's hard to completely hide things from someone you live with, though,” Jon says quietly. “I know that. I've been trying not to tell Joy much, because of Tyrek if nothing else. I trust her, and he's a good sort, but he's careless too. He lets things slip. But she knows something's going on, and I know there's things she and Tyrek know, things about the Lannisters. Father seems to suspect something of the Lannisters, and that makes my wife nervous. What I'm saying is, if Lord Jon was looking into something, his wife probably knew something of it, even though they didn't like each other.”

 

 

“So... Lady Lysa is sister to your father's wife,” Aislinn says slowly. “If she knew something, could that be how your father even knew to start looking?”

 

 

“That would give Lady Stark even _more_ reason to go to the Vale,” Loras says. “But we still don't know what this is all about! What could they have been doing that would make anyone kill Lord Arryn? No one ever had a bad word to say of him, except that he couldn't rein in the king's love of spending money. And killing him wouldn't fix that. More to the point, what could have Stannis running off with no warning? Lady Lysa's skittish as anything, and she hates it here, hates that her son wasn't under her control. She probably just saw the funeral as a chance to get away and get her son back. But _Stannis_? I've never seen anything shake him.”

 

 

“I have,” Renly murmurs, eyes shadowed. Margaery wonders what he's thinking of; she doesn't know Stannis well enough to guess. Whatever it is, Renly shakes it off, and he looks just like Stannis right now, with how deeply he's frowning. “But what I don't understand is why he didn't tell me, whatever it is. We keep secrets from Robert, but Stannis has always been almost _too_ honest with me. He was a lot blunter with me when I was a boy than most people would be, and I don't think he ever lied outright even about the worst things. There were things he didn't talk about, but I'm not a boy anymore. And whatever it is, it's important. Ned Stark thinks the Lannisters have something to do with it, but what?”

 

 

“Father's asked about Edric, and Cassana,” Jon says, slow like he's not quite sure yet what he knows, but he's certain it's important. “And the journeyman smith I know, Gendry? I saw him before the tourney, and he said Father'd been to see him, and Lord Jon and Stannis before that. Asking about his mother, and what she looked like...”

 

 

Jon sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I asked Gendry what he told him. He said his mother worked in a tavern, she used to sing, and she had blonde hair. What does Edric's mother look like? I don't think I've ever seen her. Though I don't see why it matters. Not even Edric can challenge Joffrey for the throne.”

 

 

“No, he can't, and you haven't. The Florents married her off quick, same way they did her cousin Selyse when the talks about marrying her to Stannis fell through. Delena married one of her uncle's household knights, and Selyse a minor Reach lord with a distant tie to the Lannisters. I was going to make a match for her with one of my knights, so she could be near Edric, but the Florents said it was insult enough that I had taken her son. Never mind that it was Robert's idea,” Renly adds, frowning. “She had light brown hair. Edric doesn't look much like her, except the ears, but I think everyone with Florent blood has those ears.”

 

 

“Mm. Willas' old squire Sam, who just left for Oldtown, he doesn't. But his sisters and little brother do, the whole Tarly family was at Willas' wedding,” Margaery says. “But most of them do, you're right, rather like how all of you Baratheons have black hair.”

 

 

“Well, not all of us. None of Robert's trueborn children have...” Renly stops mid-sentence, blinking.

 

 

“That doesn't necessarily mean anything,” Jon says. “Most of my Stark siblings look like their mother. I mean, Rickon has Tully coloring and a Stark face, while Arya's as Stark as I am. But Robb, Sansa, Bran... They're all entirely Tully.”

 

 

“A lot of us Tyrells look alike, just like the Lannisters or the Tullys. But even though Cassie has Tyrell eyes, her hair's as black as Renly's. Edric looks just like Renly, just like Robert used to, and that Gendry's a rougher version of the same, from what I remember,” Loras tells him. “And don't forget that mule girl Robin was going on about,” he adds with a flash of a grin.

 

 

Renly rolls his eyes. “If I have to hear about how she looks the way I'd look as a woman again...” The mirth dies almost immediately. “Four bastard children, by four different women, all look just like Robert. Cass looks more like me than Margaery, as much as we can tell with her so little. Shireen and Arthur... Ashara's coloring's too much like ours, it's hard to tell. Why don't any of Cersei's children look at all like Robert, with odds like that? The Tullys breed pretty true, I've heard, and didn't you say your grandmother was a redhead?” That last is directed at Jon, who nods.

 

 

“Arya Flint, she belonged to a mountain clan family. Old Nan told us the clans say red hair means you're 'kissed by fire', it's a way of saying you're lucky. It was when Robb was worried he looked too much like a Tully to be a Stark, we were maybe four? But I don't see your point.”

 

 

“The red can come from your father too,” Aislinn says, “if your grandmother had red hair. My mother's mother had yellow hair, and all of us with brown till my youngest sister.”

 

 

“Cersei's not so stupid though, is she?” Loras asks, sitting up and frowning. “I mean, she despises Robert and I can hardly blame her. He'd deserve it if she were cuckolding him with how he carries on so publicly, but her children could have just as easily looked like a lover as like her, if she took one. Well, unless she bedded one of her cousins, but none of them have been at court long enough to sire all three, have they?”

 

 

“No, but if she did take lovers, it might be wiser to take more than one, and only briefly,” Margaery says thoughtfully. “So no one could see a pattern. And even if it wasn't a cousin, finding someone blond, with blue or green eyes, wouldn't be so hard. There's no reason why the children would need the same father, if they're not Robert's. Although I suppose a single lover would be less likely to betray her.”

 

 

“Not really. He'd die alongside her,” Jon says, frowning. “That would be enough to keep almost anyone quiet, anyway. Especially here in the south, where most people won't take advantage of the choice to live but go to the Wall. And that's assuming the king isn't so angry at being cuckolded he never even offers that choice.”

 

 

Margaery, thinking about the times she's seen her royal goodbrother in a drunken rage, can very easily imagine him killing the man who made him a cuckold with his bare hands, not to mention his wife. Or at least trying to, though if he's reeling drunk he might not manage it. If Cersei did make Robert a cuckold, she plays a very dangerous game. How can she dare? If the risk to herself didn't matter, what about her children? Cassana isn't even a year old and yet from the moment Margaery held her she knew she'd do anything to protect her daughter. How could Cersei have brought a lover's children into the world, knowing the danger they'd be in? How could she live with that worry, no matter how much she might hate Robert? If she'd smothered the drunken idiot in his sleep, that Margaery could understand, but this is something else.

 

 

“What do we do now?” Loras asks, getting up to go stand by Renly, who's turned back to the window again, staring out with his jaw clenched. Probably brooding, which seems to be one trait the Baratheons have in common. Though unlike Stannis who is obvious about it, Robert does it by diving into wine and Renly, when in public at least, by pretending he's even more cheerful than usual. For once Margaery can't blame him, given the situation. But figuring out the answer to Loras' question is a great deal more useful.

 

 

“Well, you can't just go telling the king, not without any kind of proof,” Aislinn says, bracing herself on her elbows. “Even though Lord Renly is his own brother. It seems to me that someone ought to go see Lord Stannis, see what he has to say, and if we're even right about all this.”

 

 

“Jon will go,” Renly says, not even turning around, though he reaches out, fingers curling tight around Loras' hand. “He's the least suspicious of us. Jon, say you don't want Joy giving birth here at court, and you think it'll be good for her to have your mother close since her own is dead, which is why you're going to Dragonstone instead of Storm's End with Margaery.”

 

 

“I'm sorry, what? To Storm's End with me? Who said I was going anywhere?” Margaery says, ignoring Aislinn's warning look.

 

 

“I have to stay here,” Renly says flatly, finally turning around. “At least one Baratheon who doesn't spend his days drunk needs to be in the capital, and right now that's me. It'll raise too many questions if I leave too. But if things go badly... The fewer people still here with me, the better, Margaery. And anyway, you and Loras need to get in touch with Willas. Not your father yet, that'd be too obvious, but Willas is more discreet and he'll be able to make the earliest moves as a precaution.”

 

 

“I'm -” Loras stops, looking between his sister and his lover with a lost expression on his face. Margaery hasn't seen him look like that since the day he left for Storm's End when they were children.

 

 

“You'll go with Margaery,” Renly tells him, waiting till Loras looks back his way and then holding his gaze. “It's better that way. You can keep her and Cassie safe, and neither of you can be a hostage against your father.”

 

 

“And you?” Loras demands. “You think you aren't a hostage to be used against us, and Stannis?”

 

 

“I know I am, but someone has to stay!”

 

 

“You can work with my father,” Jon suggests quietly.

 

 

“No – well, you're right, I can, but I'm not sure that's a good idea. Right now it's best to keep away from him, because he's obviously on Jon Arryn's path while I'm not. Cersei won't move against him – he's not Arryn, he's healthy and a sudden illness would be more than a little suspicious. And you won't tell him anything, Jon. Not until we know.”

 

 

“Of course not.”

 

 

Margaery doesn't believe Jon for a moment. Whether Renly does or not she can't say, but probably there's nothing to be done about it regardless. And she can't fault her husband's logic for sending her away either. But... “Loras stays with you,” she says flatly. “I'll do well enough with the rest of the household guard, especially my two cousins that are in my service and Lady Brienne.” Lady Brienne is in love with Renly herself, Margaery suspects, but perceptive enough to have worked out why it never would have been possible. So that love becomes instead loyalty to all the family. Technically, Brienne is one of Margaery's ladies, but she's actually a guard, and it's foolish to pretend otherwise. “You need someone to guard your back.”

 

 

_And if something happens to you, Loras won't forgive himself, even if he was guarding me at the time._ The reverse would be true as well, but at least she is less likely to be in any true danger than Renly is. Loras still has that lost look on his face, but the set of his shoulders relaxes some, even as Renly presses his lips together. But, really, she already knows he'll agree. Renly Baratheon hates being left alone, and a chance to avoid it is something he'll leap at even if he knows better.

 

 

So, only a few days later, Margaery ignores her bastard cousin Garrett's curious looks as they ride away from the capital, without Renly and without Loras. Jon will be taking ship for Dragonstone any day, Joy in tow, and soon they'll have the full picture of what this is all about. She wishes Aislinn were riding beside her, but they don't have Renly and Loras' excuse of a lord and his sworn shield. It won't be appropriate for the Lady of the Stormlands to have a bastard maid-in-waiting riding next to her until they're at least half a day's ride from the palace, so for now she has Jessamine Estermont, Lord Estermont's granddaughter and Renly's cousin, with Brienne on her other side.

 

 

Brienne isn't much for chatter, so she's always a peaceful companion. Jessa, however, is too smart for her own good and Margaery's already dodged several pointed questions from her as they prepared to leave. On the other hand, the island girl is still not that good a horsewoman, so Margaery knows she'll have a reprieve for a few hours, at least.

 

 

And by then she'll be ready to throw caution to the winds and ride with her lover, propriety be damned.

 

 

\---

 

 

They meet in the bowels of the castle, among dragon skulls. Tyrion likes showing the skulls to cousins with an interest, although he probably liked it best when he brought his niece instead. Myrcella loves dragonlore as much as Tyrion, something Joy has always found amusing because she is the hidden dragon here, ought it not to be her that is fascinated by dragons?

 

 

Tonight it is not particularly funny, however.

 

 

Jon has gone to speak with his father, and he hasn't quite told her why they're headed for Dragonstone. For her part, Joy doesn't ask. She is happy enough not to give birth in the same castle as her cousin, after all. She doesn't know that Cersei plans anything, but she knows well enough than to simply assume she and her unborn child are safe. Given that, shouldn't she be happy with what she thinks Jon is on the verge of guessing? Jon, and his father, and his stepfather before them.

 

 

Lord Stannis and Lord Arryn had looked at her too, after all. She'd seen them, studying every Lannister at court, then looking at Arthur and Shireen. She knows what Edric Storm looks like. And she knows something else, something that perhaps they didn't figure out.

 

 

It's strange, that when they have no Targaryen blood – so far as Joy knows; she can't remember exactly who all the various princesses and the legitimized bastards of Aegon IV wed, and she doesn't know Lady Joanna's family tree that well – that it should be Tyrion (and Myrcella) who love dragons, and that it should be Cersei and Jaime who practice incest. Joy should be happy, because if Cersei's treacherous adultery is discovered, her cousin's power will vanish. Joffrey, mad little monster that he is, will never be king. Stannis and then Arthur will be Robert's heirs, or perhaps King Robert will legitimize Edric and marry him to Elinor Tyrell to keep that alliance. Or the king will marry Elinor, poor girl.

 

 

Joy would be happy, except... She thinks of Myrcella with her dreams and her restless heart, of Tommen who is possibly the gentlest soul in their family, and wonders what would become of them. Will Tommen survive the man who currently calls himself their father, a man whose rage at this betrayal will be vast, who looked on the bodies of two dead children and called them dragonspawn? And what of Myrcella? If she is only Tywin Lannister's bastard granddaughter, will the Martells spill her blood in revenge for Elia, for Aegon and Rhaenys? And even, she thinks of Jaime, who under his arrogance and his japes is capable of more warmth than either of his siblings, though she doesn't think he knows it.

 

 

“They know, don't they?” Tyrek says, voice tight and grim. They saw Jaime and Cersei together when they were children, and Jaime caught the pair of them once, kissing in a corner of the Stone Garden. _You could actually marry, at least,_ their golden cousin had said, oddly melancholy for Jaime. _I see Jaime and Cersei in you_ , Uncle Kevan had said, and he never saw them like that but somehow...

 

 

It is, perhaps, the one part of Cersei Joy understands, wanting to be with a lover, not forced into a cold marriage bed. Although Joy thinks her cousin has made her own case far worse, and Joy's trouble has never been lack of love in her marriage bed. It is, as it has always been, the weight of secrets that means being both Lannister and d'Altari. It is Tyrek, and the fact that sometimes... Sometimes she thinks their bond has not faded into that of siblings as she'd told herself.

 

 

Or maybe just not the _kind_ of siblings she'd thought.

 

 

“They're coming to it, if they don't,” she says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, her other hand drifting to rest on the curve of her stomach. She is larger than expected for not quite six months gone, the maester said only a few days ago, which had made Joy have to bite back laughter. More Lannister twins for the world, why not? “All anyone has to do is look at Arthur and Shireen, at Edric Storm and little Cassana. Or the other bastards – did you know Robin Arryn once called the girl who leads mules at the Eyrie Renly if he'd been a woman?”

 

 

Jon had chuckled as he told her that story on one of their walks in the Red Keep's godswood, before they were married. And Joy, Joy had smiled back even as her blood turned to ice. Because by the Lady they are still her kin, and if Cersei falls they will all fall. Joy's name is Dayne now, she is kin to the king's best friend and to the extended royal family itself through her marriage, she will be safe. But the sister and older brother her father adored, even the one he despised (and still loved for all the anger, so said Joy's mother)? The cousins? Some of them had always disdained Joy for her bastard birth, it's true, but the boys are all so promising in their own ways. Even Cleos, useless as he is, is good with his boys, his sons who are more Lannister than their father.

 

 

There is good in us too, she had wanted to shout when she saw Lord Arryn's blue eyes narrowing as he looked at them all. “Tell Cerenna to defy Cersei and go home,” she hears herself say without thinking. Myrielle will never go, is an enemy now, and Joy has never liked Cerenna but she can't forget that moment of understanding. “And you go with her. I'll have to tell him, you know.”

 

 

“You don't,” Tyrek argues. “By the Seven, Joy, we don't even know! Just because we saw them kiss once – the children could be – ”

 

 

“Don't play the fool, it doesn't become you, Tyrek!” Joy snaps. “Of course they're Jaime's, how else is it not even one of them at least has dark hair? Look at me, look at you!” Joy looks like a Lannister, mostly, though her eyes are a different shape and her face a little more angular. But her hair has as much red as gold. Tyrek has Lannister eyes and Lannister hair, but anyone who sees him stand beside his uncle Addam knows him to be said uncle reborn in all but his coloring. Uncle Kevan's twins have their mother's grey eyes, and Janei's hair is gold-brown instead of gold, only Lancel seems to have inherited only Lannister looks. Aunt Genna's boys... Cleos is all Frey, the others more Lannister than not, but their eyes or the tint of their blond hair or some of their features are Frey. Or something else, in Walder and Tion's case, but no one says so. There are Cleos' boys, Tywin and Willem, who are more Darry than anything else, although Ty has flecks of gold in his eyes just like the uncle he was named for.

 

 

Only Cersei has borne entirely Lannister children, like her mother. Like Lady Joanna who was also a Lannister of the Rock, born and bred. And it's not just the one kiss she and Tyrek saw as children. It's every look between the queen and her white knight, it's the way Jaime's hand on Cersei's arm cools her rage and stills her tongue, if only briefly, like at Winterfell when King Robert lumbered off to visit his lost love's tomb as his wife looked on.

 

 

 

“But you don't have to tell Jon. You don't.”

 

 

 

“Yes I do, and you know that, Tyrek.”

 

 

 

“How is it so easy for you?” he explodes suddenly, voice rough with a pain Joy doesn't quite understand. “How is it so easy to choose love and not family? How do you know what you must do, while I – ” His voice cracks and he turns his head from her, so she cannot see his face in the torchlight.

 

 

“While you what?” she asks, feeling as though they have begun a new conversation entirely. Tyrek has always had some piece of her soul, even when she gave Jon her heart, and so this should be impossible, she has always known her cousin as herself. And then he spins around and his fingers curl around her arms, his lips are on hers and his mouth tastes of that strange birch wine the king's decided he wants at all the meals.

 

 

She is kissing Tyrek as though they are children at the Rock again, only her lips part under his and it's no longer so innocent. He cannot press in close to her because of her belly, and it's that which brings her back to her senses. This is madness, and she loves her husband. She thinks of Jon, his dark hair and grey eyes and by the Lady, she can never let him know of this, it would end everything. She loves him.

 

 

But she loves Tyrek too, even as he flees from the dark chamber, from the dragon skulls and from her. Perhaps she does not rejoice at Cersei's coming fall because, deep down, what she hates most about her cousin is how easy it might be to become just like her.

 

 

\---

 

 

Once again, Ned finds himself turning the pages of Malleon's book, staring at the letters as though they might reform into the answers he needs if he just looks long enough. A foolish notion, but at this stage...

 

 

He is caught in this web now, and there seems to be no end in sight. He has the book, and he knows of Robert's son, the bastard smith Gendry, but what does it all mean? Ned leans back in the chair, rubbing his temples against the headache it's likely too late to avoid. It's the damned heat as much as anything else; he cannot get used to it. But none of this is helping. Why did Stannis leave? More to the point, why has he apparently closed Dragonstone Harbor? That is new information at least, brought to him by Alyn earlier today. He'd given Alyn the command of the men he'd lent to the Watch, and it seemed that the Watch had placed him on harbor duty more than once. It meant he now had friends there, and one of them had shared the information. There were rumors about the Eyrie too, but surely Lysa would speak to Catelyn, even if she would not leave herself.

 

 

It was Stannis that troubled Ned now. Renly claimed to know nothing of what his brother had been up to, and Jon also insisted he didn't know. Ned didn't dare question anyone else directly, given what had happened at the tourney. He can still see the boy's body, pale and still in the cart. He had not even spoken to Ser Hugh himself, had sent Jory, and still...

 

 

He's glad that Catelyn and Bran are gone from court, that Arya is on her way to Dorne and Sansa going back to Highgarden. He still has Jon and Rickon's safety to worry about, but it is a comfort to know that most of his family are beyond the reach of the Lannisters. Unless his gooddaughter... But no. He thinks he has enough of the measure of that situation by now, thinks that young Joy is no friend of her royal cousin. It lets him worry less about Jon, at least.

 

 

There is a knock at his door. Ned looks up in time to see the guard – Tomard, right now – let Jon in, Ghost trailing him for once instead of following Joy as the white direwolf always seems to these days. Ned's smile dies on his lips at the tense, worried expression on Jon's face. “What is it, son?” he asks as Jon tries for a smile anyway, dropping into the chair across from the desk.

 

 

“Joy and I are leaving for Dragonstone in three days' time,” he explains, fingers curling into Ghost's ruff. “I – officially, it is because since Joy's mother is long dead, we thought it good for my mother to be there for her when the child comes.”

 

 

Ned considers his firstborn son, the boy who has grown to look more like Benjen than him, in truth. Like Ben, except for moments when he sees Ashara, or Arthur Dayne. “You're here to tell me there's more to it.”

 

 

Jon hesitates, then nods. “Father, I – please. Get Rickon out of here. I cannot take him with me, it would look strange, but you've got to get him out of the Red Keep.”

 

 

The intensity of Jon's words sends a chill down Ned's spine, but he tries to be soothing as he says, “Rickon is part of Prince Tommen's household, technically a foster son to Robert. He is in an excellent position.”

 

 

“And you could take him out, you're the only one King Robert would let get away with it, and you've got to.” Jon pushes a hand through his hair. “Please, Father, you have to trust me. There's going to be trouble. I know you think Lord Arryn was murdered.”

 

 

“How could you possibly know that?”

 

 

“We guessed. Renly and... Well, his inner circle, which includes me.” It also includes, as Ned understands, Renly's lady wife and his goodbrother, as well as Margaery's lowborn favorite attendant. “We've worked some things out and that's why Joy and I are going to Dragonstone, so I can speak to Stannis and see if we're right.”

 

 

“There is one more thing you will need to speak to Stannis about,” Ned says, making the decision he's hesitated over in an instant. He pushes the book aside to write a note, summoning Lord Stannis Baratheon back to King's Landing, by order of the Hand of the King. He hadn't been certain if he was going to do it, not when it would draw far too much attention, but Jon will be leaving regardless. “Give him this,” he tells Jon as he folds and seals the order, “and tell him I expect him back at the capital as soon as possible.” Robert left for a hunt a week ago, Ned left to sit the Iron Throne in his absence

 

 

“As you will, Lord Stark,” Jon says, voice suddenly stiff, sounding so much like his mother that for a moment Ned can't breathe.

 

 

“Jon... I never meant for things to become so difficult.” But they are. His son has two families and it has become clear that he's more suited to the southron one than the northern, that perhaps Ned should have simply left him there all along. He stands and crosses over to the chair Jon sits in, pulling him up into a hug, thinking of the little boy who used to come see him when he woke from night terrors. Robb had always gone to Catelyn, ashamed to let his father see him like that, but Jon had come to him. Perhaps because he had no choice, but still...

 

 

Jon hugs him back, with a sound that might be a laugh and might be something else. “I'm not angry about that, Father. Not anymore. My life would be poorer if I hadn't been able to know all my family, to be with all of you for parts of my life. We don't – why speak of this now?”

 

 

Ned doesn't know. Perhaps the strange worry that had seemed to haunt Catelyn when she left for the Eyrie has crept into him as well, or maybe it was just the reminder of Ashara's words when Jon had sounded so like her. He had meant well, in all he did, and in truth he barely remembers the days after Lyanna died, when he left Shiera and took Jon. It was all a haze even then, and is more so now. Grief had addled him, and by the time he realized it, too much had happened to change it.

 

 

“It felt like the time,” he says, because he has no other answer. He lets Jon go and is about to say something else when Jon's eyes fall on the book. His son's expression changes, looking guilty and then firm.

 

 

“You should look at the Baratheon lineage,” he says quietly, meeting Ned's eyes. “Look at that, then compare it to the Lannisters... and to the current crop of Baratheons. We noticed – the only Baratheons any of us could recall who weren't dark-haired were the princes and the princess. But that book is far more detailed, isn't it?”

 

 

Ned stares at Jon, fully aware of what he's not quite suggesting. If the queen's children... That would explain the bastards. It would explain everything. But he needs time, and he needs proof. “I need you to convince Stannis to talk to me. Tell him I'm following what he and Jon Arryn did,” he tells Jon. “I do not have enough to take to Robert alone, Jon.”

 

 

“Neither do we,” Jon admits. “That's why I'm going. Renly wanted to wait to tell you, because he fears if you work together it will tip the queen off.”

 

“I won't approach Renly until after Stannis returns,” Ned assures him. “I need to look into this further myself in any case. What you're suggesting is serious, and it could mean little and less. Your own siblings mostly take after my lady wife,” Ned points out.

 

 

“And my siblings by my mother look more like their Baratheon father,” Jon says. “Stannis must know more, I think he left so he could prepare for any trouble from Lord Tywin before he told the king. He will cause trouble, won't he? He can't just let his daughter be toppled if this is true, can he?”

 

 

“He'll have no choice if it is him alone against all the realm,” Ned says, “but he may try. Lannister pride is great. When Robert returns from the hunt, I'll speak to him. I won't tell him all, not yet, just that we have suspicions about the queen's behavior.”

 

 

It will have to be enough as a first step, unless between now and then Ned discovers some kind of damning proof. How he might do that he doesn't know. But the strangeness between him and Jon is gone, he knows what happened to Jon Arryn at least in part, both of which are more than he had an hour ago.

 

 

It is something to be going forward with.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, Robert's on his hunting trip now. Just saying. *innocent smile*
> 
> Also, this chapter is ridiculously long, and it was going to be worse - there's two scenes I moved to the next full chapter just because there was WAY too much happening already.


	7. Interlude 3: The Wandering Griffin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man known as Griff the Sellsword attends a meeting in Lorath.

He doesn't like this city. It's chilly and strange, the salt air just close enough to home that it makes it all the harder to bear, because in every other way the Cliff City is alien to him. The way homes and businesses are built into the cliffs and stretch up as far as one can see, linked by carved stairs and bridges of rope and plank, others dug into the sides of the great maze or built on top of the thick maze walls, is unsettling to him, and always has been. But Griff has tolerated much since his exile began, and Lorath is only a mild unpleasantness compared to some of it. And it is this city that is the heart of the conspiracy in which he has become embroiled.

 

 

He wonders if Rhaegar ever knew that the weak Dornish princess in his bed was an heiress of Blackfyre and Brightflame as well. He wonders if it would have mattered, when the Stark girl somehow cast her spell on him.

 

 

It was not Varys the Spider who told Griff this, of course, not even when he approached him to take in Aegon, convinced him to accept dishonor in order to protect his prince. It was Lemore, when Griff wondered why she and her boys were with them. When he wondered why a soiled septa should be a good tutor for a future king, even if she brought with her two boys of like age so Aegon would not grow up alone. He did not know then as he does now that the rules are somewhat more lax in the Essosi Faith, though Lemore has taught Aegon in Westerosi fashion.

 

 

But she had been more than willing to tell him not only the differences between the Faith he knew and the one she pledged to, but also why she was there at all. Once she had been destined for Dragonstone where Rhaegar kept his household, where she would ensure that Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys were taught the full truth of their bloodline. Instead, she fulfilled that role on the Shy Maid. Griff can still remember the shock he felt that day and long after, to know that Lemore was Varys' sister, that their other sister Serra was the pretty woman who had willingly wed the whale of a man that was Illyrio Mopatis, to whom young Aegon had clung when he was still unsure of the redheaded stranger he was being given to.

 

 

He remembers the shock of learning that his dragon prince was a dragon in more ways than had ever been known. A black dragon as well as red, and red twice over to boot. But the shock has long since faded, and there's almost an inevitability to the logic of it. The Blackfyres failed five times to take the throne from their trueborn kin, so why not instead link their bloodlines, and gain the right they believe themselves to hold that way? Why should Aerion's line not do the same, even if Aerion himself was a monster? There were monsters in every branch of the line, and there were great heroes as well. So why should not all the bloodlines of the dragon converge in a single heir, in Prince Aegon?

 

 

If, of course, they can get Aegon back. As the boy has grown, of all the many people he could take after, he's come to resemble his uncle the Viper more than Rhaegar Targaryen. It will help convince the Dornish that he is truly Rhaegar and Elia's son, Griff knows, if the silver-haired, purple-eyed boy he shows them displays his Martell heritage too, yet it still makes him rage. Rhaegar is more forgotten every year, the truth of him lost in the lies the Usurper tells, and the son who ought to be his father come again is...

 

 

But he loves the boy, almost as his own – which brings with it a constant stab of guilt – and this eases the rage. Or it did, before Aegon and the twins slipped off when he was fool enough to leave them alone with Haldon and Duck. Illyrio informed them all of where the boys had gone, of course; to join the Dothraki khalasar along with Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys. The sheer foolishness of it made sure all of his rage returned in full. How could Aegon be so reckless? It must be the Martell in him, there's no other explanation, but how did he manage to convince Daeron to go along with it? Daemon is no surprise, but Jon Connington has always thought Daeron to be the sensible one of the three, the one who has always reined in his brother and cousin when they want to wander more freely.

 

 

It's not that he can blame the boy for not wanting to wait. Griff has waited far too long for his redemption, his revenge, and even in his anger and frustration part of him hopes this will lead to a sooner invasion. The trouble is they can't invade, not now. Not when the Usurper's hold on Westeros continues strong, his line secure with three half-Lannister children, not to mention his brothers' children. The Spider said he would make Westeros ripe for invasion, but how?

 

 

“Griff, there you are! I was looking for Lemore!” Vania d'Altari looks almost a true Targaryen, with her white-blonde hair and violet eyes. Griff is given to understand that Julilla's eldest child is purely d'Altari, sired by some cousin, so perhaps it's not much of a surprise. He has not seen Vania in long years, not since Lemore insisted they join a caravan to Morosh so Aegon could spend time around d'Altari kin. Griff had agreed because Morosh was further from Westeros than Lorath, and Vania had been serving in the temple there at the time.

 

 

It's another thing Griff is uncomfortable with, this goddess faith that is so permissive as to allow bastards to not be bastards so long as they are conceived in a temple rite. But it matters to them, and he needs them, so he bites his tongue. “Lady Lemore is unwell, and she chose to remain behind on the Shy Maid,” he says. “Your messenger did not say what this was about – you know that the boys have left?”

 

 

“Illyrio told us. He said he couldn't stop them without drawing undue attention – he doesn't want Viserys to know who they are. Daenerys would be all right, he thinks, but he's not sure she can keep word of it from her brother, and he is... He's Mad Aerys' son in truth, it seems.”

 

 

Which will make it easier for Aegon's claim to supersede his uncle's, which Griff has worried about – while, as Rhaegar's son, Aegon comes before Viserys in the usual line of succession, Queen Rhaella crowned her younger son when reports of the Sack reached her on Dragonstone. But it could mean trouble if Viserys learns the truth. Another reason to be furious that Aegon did this. “I see. And is that why I'm here?”

 

 

“Well, no, not exactly,” Vania admits. “You know that Lemore was originally meant to teach Rhaenys and Aegon at the Red Keep, yes?” Griff nods, wondering why they're going over old history, and Vania sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Well, before we knew that Aegon lived, we had another idea, a second try at the alliance made by Rhaegar and Elia, between Elia's niece Arianne and young Viserys. All things being equal, it's probably best it didn't work out quite right – Arianne was to be fostered here in Lorath, and we were going to bring Viserys and Daenerys here as well, but then Varys told us about Aegon and insisted we leave Viserys and Daenerys to their fate. He said that Cersei Lannister and others had spies on them that he had no control over, and that taking them in would risk everything.”

 

 

Some of this is new to Griff – he had not known that Princess Arianne was meant to come to Lorath, nor that she had once been marked to wed Viserys. But he still cannot see why it matters now. “Does the Spider want Aegon to wed his cousin now? That makes little sense; it's Daenerys we need.” The plan, as Griff understands it, is for Viserys to be handled one way or another, while Khal Drogo will suffer an accident or illness once his horde has helped them to take Westeros. Then Daenerys, likely grateful to be free of her savage husband, can wed Aegon. _Her_ bloodline cannot be questioned by anyone, and Griff is honest enough to know that there will be those who question Aegon, especially if the d'Altaris reveal their heritage. Whether that will happen or not has yet to be decided, this he knows as well.

 

 

“No, it's not that. It's – well. It was agreed between Lemore's father and Doran that she would come to Dorne instead, and instruct his children, and probably even Oberyn's bastards, in their d'Altari heritage as well as the Faith. But of course, once we knew about Aegon, the older promise mattered more. And anyway, Doran made peace with the Baratheons; he had to, really, that or risk another Conquest, but he had to be careful for a while, and then his second child had to be fostered because of something Oberyn did. I don't recall what exactly. But in any case, what it all meant was Lemore never went to Dorne, and eventually my princely cousins decided they'd had enough of not knowing what we were doing here.”

 

 

They have been walking toward the Winged Lady's temple at the center of the city as Vania explains all this, and now they enter, walking straight through the area of main worship, deserted at this hour. Griff can hear voices chanting in one of the rooms off the main part of the building, but those at more private devotions either do not hear their approach or do not care. The door behind the altar leads to a room he has only seen once before, when he traveled alone to Lorath after Lemore told him everything. That day, only Honored Julilla – the title for a high priestess here – awaited him, though he has since met her mercenary captain son Faleron as well as Vania. Her third daughter became a Westerosi nobleman's mistress and died of a fever there, he's been told.

 

 

Today Julilla is seated at the wooden table as she had been that day, and Faleron is there as well, leaning against the wall furthest from the door. Griff does not know the man beside him, with the streak of white in his chestnut hair, though he guesses that this is Rion d'Altari, the cousin who commands a force of sellsails for Faleron's Cliff Dragons and who might be the father of Lemore's twins. A maiden seated by Julilla resembles Vania enough that she is probably her daughter, and Griff would want to know why someone so young is in their company, but all his attention shifts immediately to the man so carelessly seated to Julilla's other side. There is a slight resemblance to the others in the room in this man, mostly in the cheekbones, but he is far darker, black hair swept back from a widow's peak and eyes an even darker black fixed on Griff. Elia Martell's eyes were just as dark, but much as he'd never liked her the man once called Jon Connington had been forced to concede the warmth in them. These eyes are cold as stone.

 

 

“So the griffin returns from the grave along with a dragon,” Oberyn Martell says, the Dornish drawl reminding Griff of the court on Dragonstone, with Princess Elia and sometimes this brother, with those of her ladies who had come from home, with Ashara and Arthur Dayne. Not a comfortable court for a Stormlander, but his silver prince had been there, and so...

 

 

“Prince Oberyn.”

 

 

“Lord Connington.”

 

 

No one has called him that in long, long years – the last was the Spider – and it's a jolt the one-time Hand does not expect, when he hears it. “So they've told you.” How exactly is he supposed to speak to this man? He never liked Oberyn either, and even Rhaegar had seemed more nonplussed by his goodbrother than anything else, although Elia had adored her brother.

 

 

“They should have told us long ago!” Oberyn snaps, and those cold dark eyes dart around the room, the anger directed at all of them but the girl too young to have been involved. “He is Elia's son, he should have been with us!”

 

 

“With _you_?” Griff has bit back rage too long, and while he knows this is not the time or the target he ought to choose, he cannot seem to help himself. “When you bent the knee to the man who murdered his father?”

 

 

“You call it murder? Rhaegar died in battle, because he was a thrice-cursed fool who got his entire family destroyed on some mad fancy.”

 

 

 _There must be three children, you see. Three heads for the dragon. So much depends upon it – everything, Jon. I don't understand it all yet, but I know this much._ It's an old memory, one the former Jon Connington does not linger on because he didn't understand then and doesn't now, but Rhaegar was never mad. Otherworldly at times, but never, _never_ mad. “The Stark slut seduced him away from your sickly sister, and her brother named _Rhaegar_ the villain!”

 

 

The insult to Elia is a mistake, he knows, even before the Viper leaps from his chair, only to be restrained – barely – by Faleron. “Will both of you stop this!” Vania snaps, sounding oddly like Lemore when she scolds the boys. “Oberyn, you're right, we ought to have told you and Doran long ago. Griff, you grieve still, I know, and you are angry with our boys, but that is not Oberyn's doing. There's no need for either of you to provoke the other. Both of you want the same thing. You want Aegon on the throne, and revenge for the wrongs done in the war. What does it matter if one of you wants it for Elia and Rhaenys and the other for Rhaegar?”

 

 

Oberyn drops back into the chair, eyes still blazing with fury, and Griff takes a deep breath. “I am sorry, Prince Oberyn. That comment was unworthy of me.” _But it was true, and you know it. If she'd had the strength to give her husband another child, the Stark girl would have had no power over him._

 

 

Oberyn says nothing, just stares at him for a long, long moment, before turning to the youngest of their company. “So, why are you here, Alianne?”

 

 

The girl – Alianne – shrugs. “My cousin Joy, Aunt Iriena's daughter. She's written asking for a midwife-priestess; I think she's afraid, even with a maester, since she knows she's carrying twins. Uncle Faleron thinks I can be a spy for us, though why we needs a spy when he's taken service with Lord Stannis and Joy is wed to Stannis' stepson I don't know...”

 

 

“You did what?” Griff says, whirling on Faleron, who offers only a sly smile.

 

 

“Stannis Baratheon sent one of his trusted men – a former smuggler with almost half his fingers missing – seeking sellswords. Rion and I took him up on the offer, because we thought, it'll give us a chance to fight in Westeros, give us some experience worth having. Your Golden Company friends are part of a group formed to fight in Westeros, our Cliff Dragons are not for all that I model them after the Golden Company. But I won't stay, and little Joy will probably want our Aly to stay with her even after the child's born – a priestess to help keep her children in our faith. It's perfect. Joy's husband is Eddard Stark's bastard and Stannis Baratheon's stepson, you know, and she's half a Lannister – the youngest, Gerion. He had no part in the Rebellion, he was actually here the whole time. I don't think he even knew much of what had happened till it was done. And mayhaps our Aly can bring Joy to the cause. She could even bring her husband along. It's worth the trying, we think.”

 

 

He cannot argue. Alianne will be well-placed if she's sent to her bastard cousin. He just hopes the girl is sensible enough to fulfill her role properly.

 

 

“The curious thing is why Stannis Baratheon even wants mercenaries,” Julilla says, fiddling with the red stole she wears. Griff knows there's a significance to the garment, but he cannot remember if he ever knew what it was. “There is something strange happening in Westeros right now, I think. Why should Stannis Baratheon need sellswords?”

 

 

Oberyn shrugs, looking careless. “The Hand is dead. Jon Arryn, that is. Replaced by a sickly boy of eleven, his only heir. Oh, and the boy's half-mad mother, who's shut up her entire region. Stannis Baratheon has closed Dragonstone, we hear in Dorne. Ned Stark serves his old friend as Hand now, and his youngest daughter is making her way south to marry my nephew.”

 

 

“You're allying with the Starks?” Griff chokes out, only just managing to keep his voice somewhat calm.

 

 

“Mm. The girl is coming and she will wed Trystane, yes. They're fourteen and fifteen, Doran can put it off a year, perhaps, but no longer. And why should he? After all, the Starks suffered in the war – whatever you think of the girl, what Aerys did was twisted enough to justify revolt from the wolves.”

 

 

He was there, that day, and in truth he cannot deny that much. It does not haunt him as the bells do, he had taken it as the proof he and other like-minded men had needed to convince Rhaegar to finally act to remove his father from power. Once Robert was defeated. “And Eddard Stark is still a traitor.”

 

 

“A traitor with reason to rebel, though, and there is the lever,” Rion cuts in, looking thoughtful. “Whoever was to blame for the dramatics with Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna, the result of that would have been that Stark would not see the prince as someone he could go to, when the king had abused his power so. In such a case, with his own life at stake, his choices were limited. If his daughter is wed to a Martell, however, if he sees that Aegon and Daenerys are worthy as he must have realized by now that his friend isn't... Men have changed sides before, when they come to realize they have supported the wrong person. But what of the Usurper's girl?” he asks Oberyn.

 

 

“Ah. Myrcella. Doran could not refuse to betroth Quentyn to Robert's daughter, it would have looked suspicious, he says. But she is only eleven, likely not yet flowered. There we can delay, and no questions will be asked. The marriage may even go through in the end; we are not Lannisters in Dorne, and none of us want to spill the blood of the children. Marrying the girl safely where she is no threat could be helpful. Tywin Lannister and his monsters will be enough for us, and Robert Baratheon's will satisfy you, will it not, Griffin Lord?”

 

 

Griff would prefer blood from the lot of them; the Lannisters and the Baratheons, Starks and Tullys. Arryn's already dead, his boy too young to blame. But he knows that Aegon's path to the throne will be easier with allies, much as it grates. The Lannisters and Baratheons must pay; the Starks and the Tullys... If they bend the knee, if they are useful, it's easier to keep them than try and replace them. “If you let any of those Usurper's heirs breed, they'll forever be a threat.”

 

 

“Or, if they can be convinced to bend the knee, helpful in winning over reluctant lords who would support them,” observes young Alianne. “But none of this is going to come to anything if we can't get them here. Where are they now?”

 

 

“We don't know for certain. Daemon was wise enough to send word from Vaes Dothrak, through an old friend of his among the Moroshi caravans. Nothing that might raise suspicion, only that he, his twin, and his cousins had made it safe to Vaes Dothrak,” Rion says. “We assume cousins must mean all three Targaryens given the plural. He also added that his eldest cousin 'met with an unfortunate accident, however, and will no longer be traveling with us'.”

 

 

“Viserys,” Oberyn says, eyes narrowed. “If your boy means Viserys, then it would seem that he is dead. It's likely they are no longer in Vaes Dothrak, and catching up to a Dothraki horde without better clues than that...” He looks back at Griff. “You say he was safer with you, and yet you could not even prevent a trio of untried boys from escaping you. I think your protection somewhat lacking, Griffin Lord.”

 

 

Griff tenses, sharp words on his tongue, and Faleron's hand is on his shoulder before he so much as takes a step. “This does us no good,” the captain says firmly. “Assigning blame at this point is meaningless. The boys have done what they have done, and we must work around it. We know that they were in Vaes Dothrak, and surely wherever they go next, word will continue to reach us. There's little we can do until we know which way the khal is going to jump.”

 

 

“And until then?” Oberyn demands.

 

 

“Until then, you return to Sunspear and tell Doran the truth, and we will move forward from there once we know more. Bring Griff and Lemore with you, they can explain things in more detail,” Julilla says.

 

 

“What?” Griff says. “I am not yours to order, Lady Julilla, whatever you might think.”

 

 

“No, but you've given too much to this plan to hesitate now, Jon Connington, even if your road continues to lead you to places you would rather not go. We both know this. For myself, I would rather we all just abandoned Westeros. It killed my brother, killed my niece and her little girl, and it killed my youngest daughter. My granddaughter carved out a place for herself by luck more than anything, and by sending my other granddaughter to her as a spy we may get the both of them killed too. But as I cannot stop you, I will make certain I do all I can to see you succeed. And if we are to succeed, then the Spider can no longer play us one against the other. It is time we bring our plans together. And that is why you are all here, as both you and Oberyn wanted to know from the moment you entered this room.”

 

 

Julilla d'Altari is an old woman now, and she has never sought to be any kind of royal so far as he knows, though she is the head priestess of a city devoted to the faith she leads. It is a power all its own, and it is all there in her lilac eyes, the leadership she has come to embody, the lineage of kings and rebels, heroes and monsters alike behind her. He has heard Lemore tell the boys of Senya d'Altari, the woman seen as the true ancestress of the line, she who decreed that dragons did as they willed, not as was expected of them, and so only those who truly wished a return to Westeros and a crown need fight for it. The others could seek whatever place in the world they chose, and it's her heiress who looks at them all, a queen in her palace or near enough.

 

 

And so here they are, and for love of one he could never have, for impossible dreams and bitter grief and the constant ringing of the bells in his dreams, for the boy that is his only hope of redemption even as he is this family's hope of success, Jon Connington is among them. She is right; to mend what wrongs he still can, he will do whatever is necessary.

 


	8. Deal Me In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Highgarden and Winterfell, marriages evolve, while in the Vale a young falcon ties the knot - and back at court, lions move to pounce.

“Again?” Willas asks, only just refraining from rubbing his temples. Seated across from his desk, Clary Flowers offers a wry smile.

 

 

“Sorry, my lord,” she says, her voice that odd mix of common and highborn accent shared by most of those who have grown up serving Highgarden, especially those who carry the name of Flowers. Most of them are Tyrells from the wrong side of the blanket, a handful of others sired by visiting bannermen, after all. “Those Florents are sneaky buggers. Guess they've got the right sigil.”

 

 

Willas doesn't entirely agree – refusing anyone seeking a servant's place who they even think might be from the Highgarden area isn't exactly subtle _or_ sneaky, but it's _effective_ , damn them. He's managed to get eyes and ears in every major house in the Reach and a fair few of the minor ones, not to mention his bastard cousin Garrett and Margaery's Aislinn in King's Landing, but he cannot get anyone in Brightwater Keep. Or Coldmoat and Standfast, actually, which would hardly be a concern except they're too close to the border with the Westerlands for his liking. And a Florent outpost to boot, for all intents and purposes, with distant blood ties to the Lannisters. So perhaps more trouble than they ought to be, if he's being honest with himself. He just hopes the chit who is Lady Osgrey now doesn't marry one of the surplus Lannisters at court – that would be a headache he does not need. If he could get one of his cousins to... Well, that's a thought for another time.

 

 

“It's all right, Clary. You should go see your father, I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you. And it'll give him an excuse to postpone going back to his wife at Honeyholt.” Cousin Leo is fond enough of his children, even if Alla and Lyonel exasperate him to no end, but he is not particularly fond of his wife, who as regent of Honeyholt for her nephew also outranks him for the moment. Clary's birth predates the marriage by several years, and so far as Willas is aware, Lady Alys doesn't even know the maidservant who occasionally waited on her girls was their half-sister. Perhaps he can send her to Dorne to join Alla's household, and have eyes at Starfall as well...

 

 

Clary laughs and takes her leave with a shallow curtsey, leaving Willas to glower at his maps on the wall in peace. He used to have a man at Brightwater, a hostler who was killed when a horse ran mad and kicked him in the head, but since then... Of course, he credits Alester Florent with not being an utter idiot, and most of the lords of the Reach know that the Tyrells keep an eye on them somehow. They must, up-jumped stewards that they are, Gardener kin through the female line or not. Typically, of course, it is not the lord or his heir that handles such things, the spywork left to a lesser son of the house or a family bastard. That it came to Willas is entirely due to his injury.

 

 

He can still remember the day Grandmother dragged Myles Flowers into his bedchamber., during the phase where he'd been unable to muster energy to do more than stare at the walls and think bitter thoughts. So far as he'd known till that day, the old man was his grandmother's clerk, but then Myles sat in the chair by his bed with a ledger and began outlining the spy network that the Tyrells had been developing almost since Aegon the Conqueror gave them the Reach. They had always kept it mostly confined to the Reach, though at various times they'd managed spies at court and in all the Great Houses besides the Starks and Greyjoys. As it stands now, Aislinn only reports on the doings of the court, refusing to betray the trust of anyone at Storm's End, which Willas has to accept. Anyway, Garrett keeps him informed enough, though Margaery will probably throttle them both if she ever works that out. It's thanks to Garrett that he knows just how discomfited Renly is by his brother's sudden departure and whatever had him spending so much time with Lord Arryn beforehand, and since Garrett befriended one of Lord Stark's men in a King's Landing tavern, he also knows his goodfather is tracing their steps. Something about brothels and bastards, and the gods only know what it's about.

 

 

Something's going on there, but Willas simply doesn't have the people in the right places to find out what. He does have someone in Elinor's household who rather makes him wish he could beat Prince Joffrey with his walking stick, but that knowledge is all but useless. Neither Father nor Elinor's father and grandfather are like to listen; for a Tyrell to be queen is too much prestige to give up. Father's already irked enough that it won't be Margaery, though he has hopes for a crowned granddaughter if Leonette's recent pregnancy produces a girl.

 

 

Something fishy at court, the Florents still keeping all his people out, their little redheaded heiress winning the king's favor with _birch wine_ of all the things... Well, no one can say he won't have more than enough to do.

 

 

His office door opens, and Willas jumps a little in surprise, lost in thought. Sansa walks in, looking entirely too solemn. “Is everything all right?” he asks, at a loss.

 

 

“Why don't you tell me, Willas?”

 

 

“Sansa -”

 

 

“I'm not an idiot, you know. I know your grandmother thinks I'll forever be too innocent to be how she wants, but I did listen to her lectures as much as I listened to your mother. I've _watched_ , Willas, and I waited for you to tell me, but you never did.” She settles in the chair Clary's vacated, blue eyes sharp on his face. “Everyone jokes about how you just seem to know things. I've noticed it for years, and it's not just that, like me, you remember what you hear, is it?”

 

 

He'd never really planned to tell Sansa, or at least not yet. She's still so young, not quite sixteen, and there's moments when he feels unsettled about the fact that they're married, even if she is still a maiden in the strictest sense of the term. He hesitates, trying to find the words. He was about Sansa's age when he was brought into this, he knows; a little older but not by much. He would still prefer to wait, but if he lies now... Some spymaster, when none of his information is the right sort and when he cannot even bring himself to lie to his wife.

 

“No, it isn't. The Tyrells aren't like the Starks, Sansa. We weren't kings for generations beyond count before becoming mere high lords under the Targaryens. We were stewards who'd occasionally been given lesser royal women as brides as a mark of honor. We couldn't have held the Reach the way you held the North.”

 

 

“The Tullys weren't kings either,” Sansa says, looking puzzled.

 

 

“No, but they were leaders – they started the revolt against the Hoares. All we did was act sensibly and yield Highgarden to Aegon. Half our bannermen have ancient claims to Highgarden. We had to figure out how to make sure none of them rose up against us, and so... We have spies. Mostly within the Reach. And since my injury, I've been the one they report to.” He stops talking, watches as Sansa considers this new information. He expects her to judge him for it; both Lord and Lady Stark are known for their honor, after all. And Sansa has always wanted to see the best in things, has always wanted at least to hope that ideals can be reached. It's the lingering spirit of the girl he recalls who was in love with her songs and believed in every word.

 

 

“Do you know what has my parents so worried?” Sansa finally asks, and it's so unexpected that Willas gapes at her for a moment.

 

 

“I – no, not precisely,” he admits carefully. “Why do you ask?”

 

 

“You said you had spies.”

 

 

“Here in the Reach, yes.”

 

 

All the response he gets to that is a raised eyebrow. “And you have no one at court? I thought you were being honest with me now, Willas.” Sansa doesn't sound angry or even annoyed, just thoughtful, wtaching him carefully. “I know something's wrong. We all know it,” she continues. “Jon, Arya, me, we spent hours in the so-called godswood at the Red Keep just trying to figure out what it is – though Arya and I think Jon knows something we don't. Allyria's worried too, Arya says, because Lord Stannis and Lady Ashara just left so abruptly and won't say why. Father and Mother are tense. Something's _wrong_.”

 

 

“You're right, it is,” Willas agrees. “We've never had many people outside the Reach, Sansa, it was never necessary. But of course I have a few eyes at court. What I know is mostly questions. Lord Stannis and Lord Arryn were asking questions about the king's bastards before Lord Arryn died, and your father is tracing their path. I have to guess he finds something about Lord Arryn's death suspicious, but beyond that... Renly and your brother probably know more – my sister and brother almost certainly do too, but they haven't said anything to me about it. They wouldn't betray Renly like that, and I imagine that's why your brother didn't tell you and Arya everything either.”

 

 

Sansa runs a hand through her hair. “So what do you think is happening, then?”

 

 

Willas thinks of everything he's learned, everything he _cannot_ learn. “I wish I knew.”

 

 

\---

 

 

Maybe it's not so surprising that it's in the wake of Lord and Lady Stark's departure that Allyria finds herself finally settling as wife to the heir of Winterfell. She's never felt comfortable in the presence of either one of them, yet Robb adores his parents – as he should, of course. It is not his fault, or hers, that they are saddled with the ghosts of what was.

 

 

And even she can tell that, while her sister resents Lady Catelyn, Allyria's goodmother is a decent woman. She loves her husband and her children, and her granddaughter too. Allyria's seen her brushing out Lyarra's hair and singing a Riverlands lullaby to her, seen Lady Stark's fierce pride when she looks at her sons in the training yard and her more bemused sort of pride in Arya's holding her own among both the men and women of the castle. And she's seen so-solemn Lord Eddard smiling at his wife, keeping Robb at his side to learn how to rule, sparring with wooden swords against Bran and Rickon and even Arya, swinging Lyarra up onto his shoulders so she can investigate the world from a better vantage point.

 

 

They are good people who love their children as much as her sister loves hers, who have also suffered in this mess they're all left in. And Allyria finds herself putting more blame for it on Jon Arryn, who set it in motion when he insisted that her husband's parents wed and her sister be put aside. (She feels sympathy for her little niece's best friend Robert Arryn and for her goodfather's loss of a foster father, but when she hears of Lord Arryn's death all she can honestly think is “good riddance”.) Even this doesn't make Eddard and Catelyn Stark easy to be around, though, and she breathes easier when they leave.

 

 

It is not so long after that when Allyria gives birth again to a little girl they name Alanna, with her own purple eyes and soon enough a dusting of hair the same red as Robb's. He is not by her side when she gives birth, but unlike with Lyarra he's close, pacing outside her chamber door and almost falling over himself to come see her and the babe once it's over. She recovers from the birth easily enough – which is not so much a blessing when it means she almost immediately hears the whispers. The future lord has no heirs, they say, and she grits her teeth. Her daughters are just as worthy to inherit Winterfell as any boy. These foolish Northerners, even when they have such as the Mormonts in their midst all they can think of is a male heir. She hears them say that no Stark woman has ever ruled in her own right, that uncles or cousins always took Winterfell and the North from them.

 

 

Allyria wants a son, if truth be told. Robb adores Lyarra and is already just as smitten with Alanna; she would like to see him teaching their son in the training yard and having him sit beside him as he speaks to lords. She has even accepted that this is not Dorne, and a son will displace her daughters if she bears one. But to hear that her girls are expected to be set aside without a brother!

 

 

She is quite fond of Bran and Rickon, but they and any sons they sire ought not to come before her girls because of what's between their legs.

 

 

Allyria tries not to think about it, tries to tell herself that they are young yet. If she has a son, then there's nothing to be concerned about, and if she doesn't then there should be time to plan and ensure that no one dares to put her daughters aside. Being acting Lady of Winterfell will help; Lady Stark is off being the Hand's lady in the capital, and she and Lord Stark could be gone for years. That means that any events here at Winterfell, such as the harvest feast or other celebrations, will be under her eye now. It will give her a chance to win the Northern lords to her and her daughters.

 

 

Perhaps, Allyria thinks, she ought to begin with her husband. They've been wed three years now, and yet still unless they're in bed together (or in the hot spring pools, or in the small room Robb used as a study when his father began giving him written work, or in a number of other places that really aren't intended for such things) they just do not fit. She thinks of Jon, the way he and his pretty Lannister wife slipped off more than once when they thought no one watched them, the looks they gave each other and the way they danced. She would like some small measure of that warmth, or even the partnership her sister found in her marriage. Stannis and Ashara don't love each other, and Ashara once said that Stannis doesn't desire anyone much at all – unlike Renly who simply doesn't desire women – but they have a bond nonetheless.

 

 

One that, whatever it is made of, is yet sturdier than the desire and little else Allyria shares with her own husband.

 

 

There are too many ghosts between them. Her sister, his father, Jon who is kin to both of them with his Dayne name and Stark face. There are the years of tension between Allyria and her departed goodparents, there is perhaps even their lack of a son, though she has not yet seen any indication that Robb is displeased with their girls. Far from it, in fact, she thinks when she goes in search of Robb only to find the girls with him in his father's solar. Lyarra sits on the floor in a pile of furs, playing with her dolls, while Robb holds Alanna in the crook of one arm as he reads a ledger.

 

 

So much stands between them that Allyria wonders if she can ever surmount it. But she has to try, because if she doesn't, her marriage will never improve. Even in Dorne, a woman makes the best of her circumstances. These are Allyria's, and she is determined to improve them. So she begins by joining Robb that day she finds him with the girls. She says nothing of his work that day, instead occupying herself with letting Lyarra tell her all about the dolls' adventures. That's no hardship; she can listen to her little girl quite happily.

 

 

She does this again the next day, taking Alanna from Robb's arms and cradling her for a while, while Lyarra leans against her father's side as he shows her maps of the North. But the day after that she comes when the girls aren't there, settling in the same chair with a book from Winterfell's library on the history of the North, until Robb looks up. “Allyria, can I help you?”

 

 

“I thought I might help you, actually,” she says, trying to sound as though it doesn't much matter to her if he accepts her offer or not.

 

 

“Allyria, you've never done this sort of thing before.”

 

 

“Is that what you think? I'll remind you that until Jon was legititmized, I was Ned's heir, and older than him to boot. I was taught just the way he was, and I helped our castellan often.” Allyria can hear the impatience in her own voice and pauses, taking a breath to settle herself. “What I'm saying is, I can help you. I want to help you.”

 

 

Robb shakes his head, but it's not a refusal so much as confusion. “Why? You don't need to.”

 

 

Allyria offers a wry smile. “Perhaps not, but it could be good for us to share something besides a bed and two daughters, don't you think?” She had not meant to be so blunt about it, not just yet, but perhaps that was her mistake. She'd meant to be subtle, not manipulative, but her husband is a Stark, and they don't like games, her nephew just as bad as his father or half-brother when she stops to consider the matter. Really, that should have been enough to guide her all along.

 

 

\---

 

 

“Uncle Tion's leaving,” Ty tells Tyrek when he returns to his chambers after his ride. He'd left at dawn, just saddled his horse and gone riding, still trying as he has since she left to forget the way he'd kissed Joy, the taste of mint tea that had lingered in her mouth and the soft feel of her under his hands haunting his mind. He'd been so caught up he'd almost forgotten that his bedchamber is no longer his alone.

 

 

“What's that, Ty?” Aunt Genna had asked that he take Cleos' elder son Tywin on as squire, and Tyrek had been happy enough to do it; both of Cleos' boys are quick to learn and cheerful enough, which means that unlike his namesake Ty smiles quite a lot. He's not smiling now, though; he looks pensive.

 

 

 

“My uncle Tion, he's going to the Riverlands, maybe to see Grandfather Frey. I don't know _why_ if that's where he's going, none of us much like the Twins. He says he might end up marrying one of our cousins.”

 

 

Somehow, Tyrek isn't surprised. Rumors have always flown at the Rock, once everyone realized just how many heirs Walder Frey would leave behind. No one with any familiarity with the house at all, in the Westerlands or Riverlands, truly believed that the inheritance would just pass easily and properly to Ser Stevron – or to his son, should Lord Frey outlive his heir. Most people assume that if any of Aunt Genna's brood will try for the lordship it will be Cleos, given that he's the eldest and with a Riverlander wife. But the family knows Cleos is... Well-meaning but useless, which makes him better than his father in one respect at least, but useless is no good for someone meant to stage a coup. Lyonel's Jaime come again in that all he cares about is fighting – there's a reason he was Jaime's only squire to date – and Red Walder's Uncle Gerion all over in his obsession with ships, which is probably why he and Joy can't be in a room for more than ten minutes without getting into an argument. Tion, though... Tion is a good bit like Aunt Genna, Tyrek's always thought so. Of the four, he has the best chance of both wanting to try such a thing _and_ being able to pull it off.

 

 

Although it makes Tyrek wonder why Ty is with him, and not with the uncle Aunt Genna has apparently decided to try making a lord of. “Ty, what did your grandmother say when she decided you were to be my squire?” He'd thought at the time that it was just because Jaime's still evading taking a new squire, and Tyrek is in favor at court because the king decided to like him. But now he's wondering...

 

 

“She said I was to listen to you, and go wherever you did,” Ty says, looking puzzled now. “But that's what a squire does anyway, isn't it?”

 

 

“That's the essence of it,” Tyrek says, forcing the words from his suddenly dry throat. He thinks of Joy again, thinks of Jaime telling him that he'll have to make a choice. “I'll be back shortly, Ty. You should go join the boys down in the training yard with Ser Aron. Trust me, as the months go by you'll learn as much from him as from me.” Or he will if things at court continue as normal, which...

 

 

Tion's chamber isn't far, and Tyrek doesn't bother to knock. His cousin is shoving a cloak into a bag when Tyrek walks in, and looks only a little annoyed at the interruption. “Hello, Tyrek. Wondered when I might see you. Ty mentioned I'm leaving?”

 

 

“He did. So, what's the plan?”

 

 

“I don't know what you mean.”

 

 

Tyrek rolls his eyes. “Oh, really, Tion. You're the only one of your brothers with the drive to pull off the coup everyone thinks your mother's planned almost since she married your father. I suppose she had to do something to make up for being handed off to a second son when she was only seven.”

 

 

Another boy might defend the man he calls father, even if Tion is as aware as everyone else that Emmon Frey is almost certainly not his father by blood. Tion, though, is his mother's son, and he just shrugs. “Well, she wouldn't be a Lannister if she wasn't seeking to improve her circumstances. But how do you know I'm not just going off to visit kin? I have a cousin living with Lord Rosby, after all, Olyvar – his older brother Perwyn has good odds of being Rosby's heir, actually – or I could be going home to the Rock, I never told Ty I was going to the Riverlands. He only assumed.” He says it all with innocent-looking hazel eyes, but Tyrek isn't fooled for a moment.

 

 

“You could be. You're not, though.”

 

 

Tion tilts his head, considering, his gaze going from innocent to sharp as any lion's claws in half a heartbeat. “No. I'm not.”

 

 

Tyrek leans against the closed door with his arms crossed, unaware of just how much he resembles Jaime in that moment. “So again, Tion, what's your plan?”

 

 

“Why does it matter to you? You're half ready to take off after Joy anyway, you'll probably end up master-of-arms at whatever keep Renly Baratheon gives the Bastard of Winterfell.”

 

 

“Maybe,” Tyrek says, unconcerned, because there's some truth to the comment. He has yet to decide if he means to stay or go, or what he'll do if he does go, but he's the orphan boy of a third son, so wherever he goes his prospects are... Limited, to say it kindly. Better thanks to his skill at arms, but still not so good as his name suggests. “Or maybe I'll woo Lady Bulwer or Lady Osgrey and find myself lord of a keep by marriage, who can say? At any rate, you know I've no patience to stop the plotting, I'm just curious.”

 

 

Tion has always wanted the Rock too, the only one of them who has as much interest but less chance of it than Tyrek. They both love it, madly oversized as it is, dark and foreboding as the inner parts of it can get. But unlike Tyrek Tion also has a more general ambition, and since he cannot have the Rock, why not take the Twins? Tyrek won't try and stop him, will even help if he really needs it, but he wonders just how Tion means to pull it off.

 

 

Tion shrugs, sprawling in his chair. “I've a cousin, Marianne Vance. She's Uncle Stevron's granddaughter, so she comes before me in the line of succession. But she's kin to both branches of House Vance – they intermarry every few generations to make sure they don't grow too distant, rather like us and the Lannisports. So, I marry her, I'm a Frey male, officially anyway, and with Lannister backing and Vance backing...”

 

 

“Does she even live at the Twins? She's a Vance of... Er, which one?”

 

 

“Well, both, as I said, but more directly of Atranta. Her father's a nephew of the lord there. And no, she doesn't live at the Twins, but tell me, who lives at _Atranta_ when she can get clear of our royal cousin?”

 

 

Oh. _Oh._ Cerenna's husband Ronald is called “the Bad” for reasons Tyrek's never been clear on as he barely knows the man, though it's apparently some jape from childhood. Presumably he does not live up to the moniker so well, though, because Cerenna rather adores him. “Cerenna's leaving? But I thought Cersei wasn't going to let her?”

 

 

“Well, she wasn't, but her husband came to court with Ser Edmure, and said that Lord Hoster wants him and his lady to attend upon him at Riverrun. Cersei didn't let up immediately anyway, but the day the king left for the hunt, she was really quite cheerful, and waved Cerenna off. So our cousin's leaving, and I'm to be part of her escort and her sworn shield, and when she goes back to Atranta I'll go with her. Did you know it was my mother who told Cerenna she should just ask her father about Ronald after her Reach match fell through, instead of just make eyes at him when he was at court?”

 

 

Tyrek has to laugh. “No, but I cannot say I'm surprised, either.”

 

 

Tion laughs too, then pushes his hair out of his eyes. “In truth, I'm glad I'm leaving. Something's off, you know. Cersei's... Well, that strangely cheerful mood of hers seems to be lingering, and Will said before he went off with the king and Lancel that Lancel's acting jumpy as a scalded cat. I hate this place, and I'll be happy enough if I never come back.”

 

 

“Shouldn't we be glad our cousin's happy?”

 

 

“It's _Cersei_ , Tyrek. Cersei happy usually means someone's about to be miserable, and we both know it. I'd wager Joy left in part because of that little scene between them, smart girl if that's so.”

 

 

That isn't why, of course, and Tyrek knows it, but he can hardly say that, now can he? “She didn't tell me,” is all he says, and does his level best to sound sulky when he speaks. Tion expects resentful jealousy when it comes to Joy, and luckily he doesn't look any further than what he expected to hear. Tion's better at playing the game than Tyrek is, but he can be complacent with people he thinks he's figured out, like Tyrek. It's something he'll have to work on if he really wants to hold the Twins, but Tyrek won't tell him that just now. He wouldn't listen anyway.

 

 

“Well, maybe her husband doesn't like how close you two are, and she's behaving for a while,” Tion says blithely, unaware of precisely what memories his words conjure but very much aware that he's being a torment.

 

 

“Done sharpening your claws on me, Tion?”

 

 

“Pretty much. You aren't so much fun for it anymore – time was you'd have taken a swing at me by now.”

 

 

“Yes, well, times have changed.”

 

 

Tion's expression goes serious again. “And they'll change more soon enough. I wager Joffrey's king before he's been of age a year, and that right there is another reason I do not want to be here. Whatever you decide to do, Tyrek, I'd get out too if I were you.”

 

 

The truth is, Tyrek agrees with that much.

 

 

\---

 

 

This is what Robert wants, Harry has to remind himself more than once, thinking of his cousin, the fragile-looking boy with a stone will behind his bright blue eyes. He wonders if that comes from the late Lord Arryn or from Stannis Baratheon, who everyone says is mule-stubborn. Not that it matters right now. It all just feels wrong, this business of Lords Declarant. Lord Yohn Royce is thrilled, of course, and he's not the only one. It turns out that, while the lords of the Vale were willing to bend to Lysa Tully, they never wanted to.

 

 

It turns out that when she keeps them away from their lord, keeps their lord isolated in his rooms at the top of one of the Eyrie's towers, even as her belly swells with yet another pregnancy, the lords of the Vale lose patience. Perhaps it is the fancy of a pregnant woman, and it will pass, as Lord Nestor originally tried to say in the lady's defense. But even he's had to admit that it won't pass soon _enough_. Robert is already near a stranger in the Vale, and this isolation does none of them any good. Besides, she's done it before, less drastically, every time the Arryns visited from court. So it's no fancy but a recurring behavior growing worse by the day. And now that even her own uncle is... not on their side, but banished to the Gate for 'meddling', they have an ever stronger case for deposing her.

 

 

Even if that were not true, Harry's hand for Nestor's daughter Myranda changed his mind about Lady Lysa quick enough. Lord Yohn had wanted Harry to marry Ysilla or Yolande, but in truth Harry never got on with either of them, and while marriage at their level isn't about love, even Lord Yohn is not so hard as to force either of his daughters into a match he knows will make both spouses involved miserable. And if sometimes one might think the man was more worried about _Harry's_ misery, because of the odds he may be Lord of the Vale one day and resent his marriage...

 

 

Well. He prefers to think kinder thoughts of his foster father where possible. And Lord Yohn does love his girls. Even so, Harry's as glad as anyone to be matched with Myranda instead; she's a widow and not a maid, it's true, but she has a wicked sense of humor and doesn't carry herself with the same cold distance of her Runestone cousins. He thinks they'll get on nicely if this all works out. She doesn't even seem to mind his bastard daughter, although she's made it clear she won't be quite so kind if he someday brings home a bastard clearly born after their marriage. When he compares it to the way Yolande looked down her nose the day he acknowledged his daughter, Myranda's reaction is by far the more favorable.

 

 

And so here they are, in the sept at the Gates of the Moon. The Gates is not a hereditary castle, and in fact more Arryns – heirs or younger sons or brothers – have held it than any other family, which is probably why there's little resemblance to the sept at Runestone. Until, waiting for Myranda, Harry finds himself studying the altar cloth, seeing the familiar runes embroidered into it. It makes him smile. He is no Royce, but he grew up with their variant on the Faith, where the Seven are just one way to understand the divine, the rituals of the Faith just one way to invoke that force, while the runes are another, older way. And so are the Northerners' weirwood trees, the septon had taught Harry and the Royce boys. He hasn't mentioned this to his parents or his cousin Lady Waynwood – he has the distinct sense that they won't approve.

 

 

He likes it, though.

 

 

The ceremony is a proper marriage done in the rites of the Seven, of course, too many devout Valemen here to have even a hint of other faiths besides the design of the altar cloth. Myranda's smile is bright and he thinks it's even genuine; his own is real enough, despite his tension. There are seven prayers and seven blessings, but the incense came from Runestone, and it's as unique as the sept there is. Harry has to force back a smile, and Myranda winks at him as if she knows what he's thinking. They say their vows and he slips the Royce cloak from her shoulders to replace it with a cloak bearing the quartered sigils of Hardyng, Waynwood, and Arryn twice over. (Although the second is in the cream and burgundy of the Arryns of Gulltown, which he can claim through his paternal grandmother, because it's a bit less politically explosive than using the sigil of the main family line twice.)

 

 

 

He is a married man. He is the declared figurehead of the Lords Declarant – not to be the new Lord of the Vale, the lords know better than to try that and Harry tells himself he wouldn't agree to such usurpation in the first place. No, they simply wish him to be Lord Regent of the Vale by virtue of his majority and his place as next heir to the Eyrie. Since he is still young, of course, this means being head of a Regency Council more than being a sole Regent; a council made up of the Lords Declarant. Harry's no fool; he knows both he and Robert are meant to be little more than figureheads. Harry and Robert have hopes of being more than that, but unlike his idealistic young cousin, Harry is far from certain that they can manage such a thing.

 

 

 

But Lady Lysa is mad, he's certain of this. So it has to be better to try this than to let things continue as they are. He's already argued for Ser Brynden to have a spot on their council should he accept it. He's Robert's uncle and has lived in the Vale long enough to know it well, after all. And it will mean less chance of problems from Lady Lysa's kin – her goodbrother has taken her husband's place as Hand of the King, after all, and both he and King Robert are still fondly remembered in the Vale. None of them want the Tullys or Starks angry with them, because it will almost certainly lead to royal anger as well.

 

 

The Lords Declarant agreed, all of them. It's a first step. And Harry doesn't know what Robert might do, when he faces his lords himself. His cousin is only eleven, but he is the Lord of the Eyrie, and... Perhaps together they can be more, but even if they are not, at least the Lords Declarant are not mad. All they need is time, time to take control and settle things, before Lady Lysa can seek the help of her kin.

 

 

This is what Harry tells himself as the days after his wedding pass, with an army massing below the Eyrie, an army he will have to help lead. This is the only way, he tells himself even as their siege makes him think of his cousin's poor health. If they do not yield, will Robert grow ill? What if some of the lords expect that and might even be hoping for it? Harry would take the Eyrie with more than a little pleasure, he knows – but _not that way_. Not like that.

 

 

It is three weeks after his wedding, and he is walking among the troops, stopping to speak with men at their cookfires or tending their horses or cleaning weapons, when a messenger races up to him. “My lord! Your goodfather, Ser Nestor, tells us that Lady Catelyn Stark has come to the Gates of the Moon!”

 

 

So much for managing all this with none of Lady Lysa's kin finding out about it.

 

 

\---

 

 

There are days when Tyrion wonders if his sister really does lack subtlety to the degree he suspects or if he simply knows all of her tells. Because to him it's blatantly obvious by the glint in her eyes and the flush of her cheeks that she's behind her husband now laying on his deathbed, but no one else seems to notice as she passed through the corridors. Well, no one except Jaime, and their various cousins are clearly wary, and everyone else simply accepts that King Robert has fallen to an accident caused by his own drunken carelessness.

 

 

But Tyrion knows there's more to it. For one thing, Lancel's been far too jumpy for weeks, and as for his younger brothers... Willem's taken Tyrek's place as Robert's other squire, and Martyn knows everything his brother knows. Martyn's been fretting in his quiet way since the king set off to hunt the white hart. And so Tyrion makes his way to Cersei's solar, where he finds her alone with Jaime – thankfully, they're both sitting down in chairs and not doing the things they've been nearly caught at more than once.

 

 

“What do you want?” Cersei snaps, eyeing him darkly. Jaime says nothing, giving Tyrion an amused look. Tyrion climbs into one of the vacant chairs, settling himself before he speaks.

 

 

“I want to know how you managed to put your husband on his deathbed,” he says lightly. “Such perfect timing, Robert's not so obliging as to have done exactly what you wanted for once, especially not something so drastic as dying.”

 

 

Jaime laughs. “Lancel gave him strongwine. The rest, the old sot did himself.” Jaime sprawls in his chair much like how Renly did the last time they spoke, and something twists in Tyrion's chest. He always knew it would come to this, he thought he'd expected it. He thinks of the books he's been reading on the Reach lately, of the half-formed ideas on how to break them when the Tyrells inevitably back the Baratheons – because Mace Tyrell will do what Loras and Margaery want, and they will side with Renly.

 

 

 

 

“He's going to give Lord Stark the regency,” he says instead. “Joffrey's not quite of age yet, he can still do that. And we all know Lord Stark knows things you don't want him to know.”

 

 

 

“I have no idea what you're talking about. We can wait Stark's term out if we must, although it should be easy enough to get Joff's majority declared early,” Cersei says, trying for nonchalant. And she is good at mummery, his sister, but not good enough to fool him when he knows better.

 

 

 

“And if Ned Stark's son comes back from the little mission his father sent him with his stepfather in tow, and Robert's best friend and brother both declare Joffrey to be no Baratheon at all? And we all know he's not, you and Jaime especially.”

 

 

Cersei moves to slap him, but Jaime puts a hand on her shoulder. “Tyrion, what are you going on about?” his brother says, and Jaime is not even so convincing as Cersei in this attempt to be casual.

 

 

 

“What, did the two of you think I was so blind as Father? I know, and with the way you two used to slip off at the Rock, I would be very shocked if at least one of our cousins hasn't glimpsed you.” _And if it was Joy or Tyrek who saw you, or even Cerenna with her grudges, then we are in even more of a mess_ , he thinks but does not say. “And even if I wasn't so sure, I have spent a great deal of time with Renly Baratheon, which means a fair amount of time around his niece and nephews – the bastard boy as much as Stannis' son. Anyone with eyes would wonder about Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella, after that.”

 

 

“And have you told your dear friend about all this?” It's Jaime who asks, which isn't quite as surprising as it seems.

 

 

“No,” Tyrion says. “Why, Jaime. You know how much I love my family. He didn't know anything anyway, except that Stannis is keeping secrets from him. Better for us if Renly's irritated with his brother than working closely with him, yes? He's not a worry, nor was Renly my point. Arryn knew, didn't he? Is that why you had him killed, Cersei?”

 

 

Cersei rolls her eyes. “Who's saying I ordered that?”

 

 

“We hadn't worked out what we meant to do about him,” Jaime admits, and Tyrion almost groans aloud. Honestly, he would have been happier to hear a confession of murder. At least that would suggest that his siblings are trying not to get caught. At this rate, he's beginning to wonder if they've ever actually fucked with Robert close enough to catch them himself, the idiots.

 

 

 

“Well then, either you were extremely lucky that he fell ill when he did, or you were extremely lucky that someone else had reason to kill the man. We're not going to make that mistake with Lord Stark, are we?” Tyrion speaks to Jaime more than Cersei; Jaime is likely to listen to him, while Cersei is not.

 

 

 

“As I said, I will simply have Joff's majority declared, and then it won't matter what pieces of paper Robert manages to scribble on before he dies, Stark won't have any chance to declare any lies about my son,” Cersei says flatly.

 

 

 

“And what happens when you send him away from court and he joins up with Lord Stannis?” Tyrion snaps.

 

 

 

“So we move first. Take him and his household before anyone has time to say anything,” Jaime says. “Close the ports and put a watch on the gates so no information gets out of the city, at least until we figure out how to keep the man quiet. In the worst case scenario... An accident, maybe? The Starks will probably only pretend to believe it, but without proof... And then we'll have time to figure out how to handle Stannis.”

 

 

Tyrion isn't surprised when Cersei agrees to Jaime's suggestion when she had only ignored his own. It doesn't much matter anyway, he thinks as he settles in his own chamber again, where his window affords him a look at redcloaks led by Jaime making their way to the Tower of the Hand. _Fawn, you idiot, take the chance and get out before my siblings realize you're a threat no matter what you know,_ some part of him thinks, even as he turns from his window and goes back to his books and papers on the Reach. The Florents are the key, with their grudges and ambitions. Thwarted and then insulted by the Baratheons, if Robert's 'son' offers to make up for that...

 

 

Once Stark is handled, his siblings and that little monster nephew about to get a crown are going to need these plans, and Tyrion is determined to be ready with them. He's chosen his family; he will be damned if he doesn't make it worth it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we finally get some idea of what's going on in the Vale! And I finally got to do my Willas reveal, which I've been trying to hint at prior to this point.


	9. Interlude 4: Return to Dragonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Dragonstone, the future royal family waits and plans for the future.

Joy doesn't ask questions when Jon tells her they're leaving for Dragonstone, and it is her very silence that tells him she's been expecting something like this. And so he catches hold of her wrists when she would instead go to lie down on the bunk they have been given. “You think you know why we've left.”

 

 

“You told me why. You think if I cannot have my mother when I give birth I should have my goodmother. Which is all well and good; I think I need the company of my cousin Livia the most, but she is already on Dragonstone, after all. Your stepfather barred her ship from leaving once it stopped on Dragonstone, you know.”

 

 

Jon does know, as Joy mentioned it several times already. But he doesn't really care about it. “Joy. You know what I mean. You know we're not leaving just because of that. King's Landing isn't an ideal place for a child to be born, but neither is Dragonstone. In all honesty, I'd rather Storm's End or Starfall if it was just about taking the risk of travel for a better location. And you know me well enough to know that. So don't play the fool.”

 

 

“I _don't_ know what you know,” Joy says, shaking her head. “You haven't told me. I can think of any number of conclusions you and the others of Lord Renly's little faction might have reached, but I don't know, Jon. I doubt you will have even thought of the truth, because it's...” She looks away, biting her lip, then back up to meet his eyes. “Do I know you've worked out something important, likely about my queenly cousin, something Tyrek and I have suspected for years, though we don't talk about it?”

 

 

“You and Tyrek? Joy - “

 

 

“I've told him nothing, Jon. We saw something once, he and I, when we were children at the Rock together. We saw Cersei – ”

 

 

“With a lover?” Jon cuts her off, suddenly intent. If Joy knows who Cersei's lover is, if there is some way to prove it, then they are already a step ahead. His time on Dragonstone need only be brief; he can convince his stepfather to come back with him, and then Stannis, Renly, and Father can speak to King Robert. That returning to Dragonstone is necessary he has accepted, much as he hates it. Arya, Sansa, and Bran are gone from court at least, but Rickon is in Prince Tommen's household. He's not safe. And while the Lannisters don't dare kill his father, not with Jon Arryn's death so recent and Father's health good enough that a sudden illness would be suspect, they won't be so fettered forever. Joffrey is nearly eighteen, once he's attained his majority and there's no risk of King Robert naming the regent, they can just kill the king if they want to.

 

 

Not to mention, the gods alone know what Lady Catelyn's venture will bring, though given Lady Lysa's temperament Jon doubts she will be of any help to any cause but that of keeping her son under her direct control. Still, Renly says that Ser Brynden Tully is well respected in the Vale; if the sister cannot help, the uncle's influence and the memory of Jon's father and the king in their boyhood might. They need to move quickly, and every bit of information means less time wasted in further investigation. Whatever his wife knows, they need to know.

 

 

Joy's very silence draws Jon out of these thoughts, and Ghost growls softly, sensing his frustration, his fear and anger all mixed together – for a dizzying moment Jon thinks he sees himself and Joy, as Ghost must see them. “Joy. _What do you know_?” His fingers tighten on her wrists and he hears her breathe in sharply, but his fingers feel frozen, as if he cannot loosen them. Why she hesitates he can't understand, because while he knows she loves some of her kin, he knows well Cersei is not on that list.

 

 

“We saw her and Jaime,” Joy says, voice bitter and tight.

 

 

What? “Of course you saw her with her twin, they are almost never apart, and it would not surprise me if he knew who her lover is but – ”

 

 

Joy is shaking her head, looking at him with an almost mocking expression, as though she cannot believe he's being so foolish. And he thinks of his own words – Cersei and Jaime are almost never apart, and... And...

 

 

“No. That's foul.”

 

 

“The Targaryens did it often enough, if not so much as the legend implies,” Joy points out, pulling her wrists back as Jon's grip loosens with his shock, twisting them as if to shake off an ache. “Your pretty Sand of a cousin and I both come from a line that was born through such incest at one point or another, your cousin more than me. But even so.”

 

 

“You cannot be saying – “

 

 

“That it's right? No. Even my faith does not condone the union of siblings, however permissive we are in other ways. For the gods it is allowed, the Lady's lover is the god of the seas and he may well be her brother, but for men and women the rules are different. I am only saying that it is not the kind of unspeakable, impossible thing that you are implying. The point was conceded that some could do it, and once they lost their dragons the Targaryens were proven to be mortal men just like the rest of us. So it was only a matter of time until... Well. Until someone else dared it.”

 

 

“You've known this for years, the both of you, and you said nothing?” She's right, Jon supposes, but how could she and Tyrek have remained silent? “Even after our marriage, when we shared our secrets, you and Tyrek kept this one? You even told me about the two of you, how could you not mention this?”

 

 

Joy sighs. “Because we didn't know what we saw, in truth. We saw them kissing and no more, Jon. At the time, I truly believed Cersei must have borne the king's heirs; she wouldn't be the first Lannister woman to do her duty and then go her own way. My aunt's younger sons are almost certainly not her husband's get, which is all the better for them as Emmon Frey is a pathetic nothing. It wasn't until I came to court that...” She shakes her head. “And even then, we didn't know – or I didn't. Tyrek and I never spoke of it, but he's not one to cause trouble so I doubt he went looking. There's no way to be certain.”

 

 

“All three of Cersei's children look Lannister.”

 

 

“Most of us with Lannister blood do.”

 

 

“And everyone with Baratheon blood looks Baratheon,” Jon counters. “You'd let Joffrey, a bastard who you believe to be born of incest, not to mention at least half mad, take the throne to which he has no right?”

 

 

Joy scowls at him. “And what happens to them? To Tommen and Myrcella? Joffrey can go to the seven hells or the domain of the gods of shadow, I don't care about him. But Tommen and Myrcella are good children. I won't see my cousins murdered, Jon! Not like Rhaenys and Aegon. Do you not understand? My mother never even dared tell my father who we were, because his brother ordered the murder of the known Targaryen heirs, the heirs we were kin to!”

 

 

“My father, Stannis, Renly, they would never – ”

 

 

“None of them are King Robert though, are they?”

 

 

“They're – he's seen them as his own, surely he must love them enough that...” But Edric gets excited over gifts Robert never actually sent, only had Varys send for him. Supposedly, letters Renly and Stannis got from their brother in the Vale once went on about his spirited little bastard girl, but has he ever, as king, lifted a finger for Mya Stone? He doesn't know Gendry exists, but if he did, would it matter at all?

 

 

“I don't think it will protect them. I think it will only make his anger all the greater, Jon. He might regret it after, or perhaps he won't bring himself to kill them, but then... He'll remarry, he'll have to. I'm not sure who, but he'll have to marry someone. It's just possible he'll skip that and legitimize Edric instead. But either way, whoever has reason to support his new heirs will have reason to see that Cersei's children aren't long for this world. They're almost certainly Jaime's, but they've been recognized as King Robert's. It will always make them a threat, just as Aegon and Rhaenys would have ever been a threat as the heirs to a deposed line.”

 

 

Jon can say nothing to that. Joy is right.

 

 

<><>

 

 

“Why should I support him? I've never been the stags' man, and I don't mean to start now,” Monford declares, and Ashara rolls her eyes. He's a stubborn man, this cousin of hers, and it is something they have no time for. Not with the sudden silence coming from King's Landing, Renly arriving two mornings past with word that Robert, gravely injured in a hunting accident, was on the verge of death. They have heard nothing since, not of Robert or the Lannisters, nothing of Ned and his youngest boy, the only child still with him in King's Landing. Robert is almost certainly dead, but they're trapped until they know for sure. Move too soon, and if Robert still lives, even if barely alive, even if he's not even conscious, then they're traitors.

 

 

Jon alternates between trying to sit with his wife, discussing plans with Stannis, Renly, and Davos over the Painted Table, and hacking away at straw dummies as though any activity could chase away his worry, could chase away his fury with Renly for leaving his father and brother to face the Lannisters alone. But Ashara cannot indulge her concern for her son, not at the moment. She has her cousin to deal with. “You would prefer a Lannister bastard on the throne, with Cersei, Lord Tywin, and the Kingslayer whispering in his ear?” she asks, folding her arms. She has known Monford Velaryon since she was a young maiden and he still a boy, a page and a maid-in-waiting drawn together at the princely court of Dragonstone. Their grandmothers had been sisters, giving them an initial reason to speak, and friendship had only grown from there.

 

 

He might have married her after the war, had Jon Arryn not arranged the match with Stannis. As it is, he has always supported her as Lady of Dragonstone, supported Stannis as his overlord for her sake. And he remains the only one who truly understands what it costs Ashara to this day, to stand in what is essentially Elia's place as mistress of this castle, to dwell in the place where kind Queen Rhaella died.

 

 

She knows him, and she knows he will not accept the Lannisters, given any excuse to do otherwise. Stannis is not loved by Monford, or indeed by any of his reluctant bannermen – they do, however, respect him, for all that they see him as too harsh, for they know that he expects the same strict way of life from himself. And Ashara has made certain that they do hold affection and as much loyalty as she can inspire for her and her children. So they will have their lords and Renly's, but then...

 

 

She does not know what Doran and Oberyn will do, although she knows that the Dayne bannermen will come if they can. And if that thought brings unbidden a reminder that at Starfall she has hidden away Rhaegar's last child, a Targaryen who is just as much a Stark, claimed as Arthur's bastard... Well, that hardly matters, does it? She supposes she could reveal Shiera's parentage, suggest to Stannis that she and Arthur marry, shore up their claim that way, but who would believe Shiera is who she is? It would be unfair to the children, and not helpful enough to bother with.

 

 

Tyrell will join with them if his children ask it of him, of this Ashara is almost certain. At worst, he'll remain neutral; he would never actively campaign against Margaery and Loras, who are his favorites. Lysa Arryn is mad, so the Vale is anyone's guess, while the Ironborn are no one's ally. As for the Riverlands, she imagines the Tullys would happily oust the Lannisters, but they won't risk open rebellion unless the Starks are with them. And whether the Starks and the North will join with Stannis depends on Ned believing the truth about Cersei's children.

 

 

“Your boy is Princess Daella's blood through you as well as Princess Rhaelle's through his father,” Monford says, cutting into Ashara's thoughts. “And you're sure the whelps aren't Robert's?”

 

 

“As sure as anyone can be.”

 

 

“It's a better excuse than Robert had, at any rate.”

 

 

This is where they disagree; Ashara firmly places blame for the Rebellion on Aerys and Rhaegar, and their terrible choices while Monford... Aerys went too far, all but the most fanatically loyal agree, but Rhaegar... Mad for love, they say, but other Targaryens had been the same yet ruled with good sense. But Ashara, who can remember Elia ranting about Rhaegar's obsession with prophecy, is inclined to think that Rhaegar was a budding Aerys I, or worse, a Prince Rhaegel.”

 

 

They no longer discuss it.

 

 

“So we have your support?” Ashara confirms.

 

 

“I gave him my oath, didn't I?” Monford snaps. “Didn't want to, but once given, I keep my word.

 

 

Things are far from certain, especially now that Renly's told them they will never have a chance to tell Robert the truth. If Stannis had just unbent enough to tell him -! But that is done. They will work with what they have, Ashara knows, and that will need to be enough, because it is the only thing they _can_ do.

 

 

<><><>

 

 

There is still no word from the capital when Renly sails for Storm's End, but it's necessary that he leave. He needs to muster the stormlords, and his Knight of Flowers needs to ride for Highgarden and get the loyalty of his worthless father. Jon is already preparing to leave for Starfall, to help young Edric raise the Dayne forces and to see who else among the Dornish can be convinced to rise for them. Given that the Martells have Myrcella, it's an open question as to who they will back, but it's worth the trying. Davos will soon head for Gulltown, to begin seeing who might join them from the Vale.

 

 

Stannis had considered sending Jon to his half-brother Robb Stark, but as the young man is not the head of his house, it would not be appropriate. Jon admitted that he told his father the royal children may be bastards – though of course at the time he hadn't known the whole story and had not been able to tell his father that they were bastards born of incest. So there is reason to hope that Ned Stark, already possessing some of the truth, will join them. Assuming he was successful in whatever he planned to do in the capital, which is impossible to determine while whoever has control in the city keeps all information from leaving it. Renly was skeptical of the man's chances, Stannis knows, but it's yet another thing they must wait to know.

 

 

And so that is what they do; they wait. Ashara explains things to the children as their bannermen arrive, adding their forces – such as they are – to the men Stannis has gathered. They drill in the yard but now matter how honed their skills become, their numbers are too few without the support of other forces.

 

 

Arthur goes down among them every day for his own training, talks to them, learns what they know of fighting and even some of their personal stories. Young as he is, he has Stannis' memory for details but a talent for turning that to remembering each person he speaks to that is all his own. He has the same common touch as Renly or Robert, he has Ashara's easy grace. There are times Stannis wonders how he fathered a boy so different to himself, but then, none of his father's sons really took after him, he must admit. At least Arthur is likely to have the love of his future subjects; Stannis does not care that men don't love him but he _is_ aware that his lot would be easier if they did.

 

 

As for Shireen, shy as she is, she is at her mother's side as they keep the lords entertained. When she isn't with Ashara, she's with Arthur, discussing the soldiers he's spoken to that day, or with Cressen and Pylos, helping them with the letters they are drafting to be sent out to lords once it's known that Robert is gone and Stannis King, learning all the recordkeeping that goes into preparing an army. He cannot fault either of his children for how they are already learning to take up their duties – in fact, he is proud of them.

 

 

He does not even fault Shireen for wanting to know if her unofficial but expected betrothal to Robin Arryn will be ended now that the situation has changed so much. “I do not yet know, Shireen,” he says, giving her the truth she deserves to hear.

 

 

Shireen nods, chin lifted in a way Stannis knows too well – it is one of his own gestures, from before he learned to hide them as weaknesses. “I will marry whoever you require, Father,” she says calmly, though her fingers curl around that falcon pendant she always wears. “Maester Cressen wanted me to bring you this chart,” she adds, and after Stannis gives his approval for what it sets out, he sends her back to the maesters to tell them.

 

 

The truth is exactly as he told Shireen; he doesn't know what will happen with regards to her marriage, or Arthur's, or even Renly's little Cassana's. All three children are there if a marriage alliance becomes necessary, but there's no way to know when that will be necessary.

 

 

There is only one thing he knows, when the raven comes as the sun is setting. He opens the letter to find that 'King Joffrey' summons him and all his family – not to mention just about every lord of any stature in the realm – to come to King's Landing and personally swear fealty. And so, reading this, Stannis Baratheon knows that his brother is dead, and that he is now the true king of Westeros.

 


	10. Where the Game Turns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Robert's death and Ned's imprisonment, the Starks and Lannisters must decide their next moves, while elsewhere in Westeros, a princess moves to secure her future and a child's name declares her true bloodline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Certain sections in the first and especially last scenes of this chapter are taken from the text of A Game of Thrones; these obviously are no more mine than the characters are.

At least Rickon is safe. They haven't told Ned as such – the guards barely speak to him at all – but he believes that if they had his son, the Lannisters would not hesitate to use threats against Rickon to make him bend to their will. And so it is likely that he and Jory have managed to escape, just as Ned had hoped should the worst happen.

 

 

And without his son in danger, Ned knows he can hold out against Lannister threats to bow down where he cannot. The boy Joffrey is no Baratheon, and he cannot be allowed to rule. Ned would have compunctions about him even if he were Robert's son – he's seen odd bruises on the Tyrell girl's arms, heard stories from his children and some of his men about the boy.

 

 

But if he had been Robert's son, Ned would have had little choice, though he might have tried to find ways to mitigate his behavior. But he isn't. He is the child of Cersei and Jaime Lannister, as are his siblings, and they're no Baratheon heirs. But he failed to prove it, he went to Cersei from honor and now his men are dead, and he rots in a stinking cell. No child's blood spilled on marble as might have happened if he'd joined with Renly, but Alyn, Vayon Poole, Fat Tom, all the men he'd brought...

 

 

His leg burns whenever he moves, and he cannot see. Rickon must be safe, he tells himself. It is only that which keeps him from losing himself completely to the images that seem to form in the darkness as his wound turns rotten and fever sets in. Only when they bring water or scraps of food does he have moments of light, or a pause in his solitude. Except for those he sees that are not there...

 

 

“What good did your blasted honor do you?” Robert roars, his face shimmering before Ned's eyes, before cracking and shifting to Littlefinger's, smirking at him. Again Ned feels the man's dagger at his throat, as Brandon must have felt the strangling cord wrap around his own in the same room. He thinks of the smug triumph in Cersei's face, of how the throne room must once have echoed with the Mad King's laughter and his father's screams.

 

 

Lyanna in her bed of blood, the girl with silver-gold hair and Stark-grey eyes, coming out of the crypts of Winterfell with Jon. “What have I done to you?” Ned whispers in the dark, thinking of his niece with dragon's blood in her veins, Lyanna begging him to protect her daughter, whispering her reasons for going with Rhaegar.

 

 

He dreams of it, of blood and blue roses, of Arthur Dayne at the Tower of Joy and Ashara at Harrenhal, two babies with Stark eyes in a cradle at Starfall before he steals one away. He dreams of Catelyn and longs for her, his arms ache for her, he fears for Robb and Jon and Bran, for Arya at sea. He dreams of Rickon wandering in fog, of Sansa crying for them all.

 

 

He is half-asleep when the footsteps come, and at first he thinks them another dream. Then there is light, burning his eyes, and when his vision clears he finds himself staring at Varys. The eunuch tosses him a wineskin, filled with sour wine, yet Ned drinks all the same. Perhaps it is poison, but he's past caring.

 

 

“Your hour has come, my lord,” Varys tells him.

 

 

“My son...” He has to know.

 

 

“Oh, which one? Your oldest boy is summoned to swear fealty, the middle one is with his uncle, of course, the bastard with the king's traitor uncle and condemned by his company, I fear. Oh! The little one, with your wife's red hair and your long face. Tsk. Such an odd thing, but he has vanished, my lord. The Queen was wroth.”

 

 

Rickon is free. Ned does not trust Varys but it proves his guess that if they had Rickon, they'd use him as a threat. He relaxes then. His children are free, and if Catelyn learned what he has, if Jon tells Robb as he is certain must happen, then they will unite against the Lannisters. They will survive. His fate matters less, if he can hold to that.

 

 

But still, as Varys watches him in silence, he asks, head swimming with wine, “Are you here to cut my throat or to free me from this pit?”

 

 

“Oh, neither, my lord,” Varys says with that damned titter of his.

 

 

“Will you carry a message?” He thinks he knows what Jon will do, what Cat will do, but there are chance events that could change things. He must get word to Robb himself, if he can. But Varys is shaking his head.

 

 

“I can provide paper and ink, but will I send such a message on after I read it? That I cannot say, Lord Stark. But do tell me, what madness persuaded you to tell the Queen of your plans?”

 

 

“The madness of mercy,” Ned mutters. “The children...”

 

 

“Ah. Seeing what honesty and honor have brought you, I see why I have met few honorable men,” Varys says dryly. “And so your mercy killed your friend. A sad thing, and most inconvenient for me.”

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

“I wished to keep Robert Baratheon alive, for while he sat the throne peace was kept, foolish drunkard that he was as a person. I told you before, I serve the realm, and the realm was not ready for the chaos that will descend now. But you can aid me in this, Lord Stark, even now.”

 

 

“Speak plainly, damn you,” Ned grits out, the wine making him dizzy.

 

 

“The Queen will soon visit, wishing you to declare your treason and name Joffrey a bastard. Should you do so, your son will bend the knee, and Cersei will only have to deal with Robert's brothers. A struggle, yes, but not as bad as if your Northerners and your wife's kin join in the fighting. You, of course, will go to the Wall – treason cannot go unpunished.”

 

 

The Wall. Ben. For a moment Ned is strangely tempted. Things are clean and clear on the Wall, simple. His brother is there. He will lose Catelyn as a wife but he might be able to visit his family from time to time as Ben does. But no. They do not have Rickon, and they cannot force his compliance when they can only hurt him. “No.”

 

 

Varys sighs, and moves toward the door. “As I thought. Well, on your own head be it. But you are a good man, so I will give you a small comfort.”

 

 

“What comfort could you possibly give?” Ned asks, tired and defeated.

 

 

Varys' smile is stranger than any of Ned's fever apparitions. “Joffrey is mad and Tommen spoiled, Stannis far too harsh. But there is a prince who can bring this country to peace and prosperity again, a boy trained for it all his days. I promise you, Lord Stark, this is no true end, just a passing storm.”

 

 

The door closes behind him and Ned is plunged back into darkness.

 

 

<><><>

 

 

The lords come, day after day, and their men too. It isn't that Allyria is surprised by this, but she's also never been privy to a muster before. Dorne, still bitter over Robert's Rebellion, had all but stayed out of the Greyjoy Rebellion, and as such there had been no banners to call in that year, and that is the only other war Allyria is old enough to remember.

 

 

Only war at all, she reminds herself. This has not quite come to war yet.

 

 

She's lying to herself and she knows it. She has lived among the Starks long enough to understand that unless Joffrey can produce a very good reason to justify his accusations of treason, there is no possibility that Robb will accept it. And so, it will indeed come to war. She just wishes that Ashara would write back to her, that Jon would write more than 'call the banners'. He must have known something was going to happen before it did, but didn't dare commit it to paper. Which means that whatever is at the root of it all is very dangerous indeed.

 

 

In the absence of more information, Allyria is sensible enough to view this as another opportunity to win support as Lady of Winterfell. So she hosts the lords bannermen and their levies, one after another. All of them want something, of course; that is the way of things. Lady Mormont's brought her youngest daughters Lyra and Lyanna to be companions to Allyria – Allyria accepts this, along with the company of Wylla Manderly and Jonelle Cerwyn. Jonelle is several years older even than Allyria, but this is no bad thing, really. It's good to have female company again, as she had in the Water Gardens, or with Shiera at Starfall. And it cannot hurt her to have Northern ladies about her, to show that she is becoming one of them and to help her raise her girls as true daughters of the North.

 

 

Allyria learns what the lords all want at night, Robb coming to her chambers and lying beside her, looking for someone to confide in more than a bed partner. They are still cautious friends at best, and uncertain partners in running Winterfell, but things are improving between them. Allyria is proud of this; it's her efforts that began it, though she acknowledges that she would have failed if Robb hadn't been willing to respond in kind. Since he is, she learns that Bolton and Glover both insist on battle command, Hornwood is even more demanding, wanting a holdfast, hunting rights, and to dam the White Knife – which the Manderlys will just hate, she imagines.

 

 

“Lady Mormont wants Lyarra to be betrothed to her grandson,” Robb says one night, toying with a lock of Allyria's hair. He often does that when they lie together at night, as if it soothes him somehow. Since Allyria doesn't mind it, she sees no reason to stop him. “They are nearly of an age – the boy's name is Tancred and he's three – so it's not such a bad match. Although it's unlikely he'll inherit, so...”

 

 

That could be quite welcome if Lyarra inherits Winterfell one day, Allyria thinks but does not say. For one thing, it's far too early for anyone else, even her husband, to know how determined she is that her daughter inherit if she has no son, and for another, it is also too early to select a husband for her. The Mormonts are an old and respected house, but they are not as powerful as some of the other principal bannermen, and both Lady Maege's girls and Alysanne's daughter and son – the boy in question – are technically legitimized bastards. As a Dornishwoman this does not bother Allyria, but would it bother the Northerners? Would this little boy be the best connection for her daughter? Impossible to say at this stage. But she keeps it in mind.

 

 

The most dramatic night comes when Greatjon Umber almost takes his men back home. For a moment, Allyria is almost certain he's going to draw steel on Robb – she sees his sword begin to clear its sheath – and then, suddenly, Grey Wind is there, and two of Greatjon's fingers are mere bleeding stumps. “My father taught me it was treason to draw steel on your lord – but doubtless you only meant to cut my meat,” Robb calls in a voice that rings through the hall, and for the first time Allyria can truly see that the Starks were born of kings.

 

 

Greatjon, shockingly, laughs, and it's clear even through the man's pain that Robb's gained an ally. Allyria relaxes in her seat beside her husband, and as the feast resumes becomes aware of a low chuckle to her other side. Theon Greyjoy's place at the high table had been murmured at, but not so much as she might have expected. “Share the joke, Greyjoy?”

 

 

“Only that Robb won more help tonight letting his wolf off the leash than he has in days upon days of carefully playing the lord. Not that he hasn't done a good job of pretending to be his father, only with red hair, but if only he'd known we could have been past this mess already.”

 

 

“Yes, well, having a wolf mutilate a high lord isn't usually a good idea. Robb was just fortunate that the Greatjon isn't a typical high lord.”

 

 

“None of the Northerners are. They're greenlanders but not like the southrons,” Theon says with a shrug. “Not so unlike your Dornishmen, didn't you say so before?”

 

 

Allyria has said so before – listening to stories of how the smallfolk gathered in the winter town when winters came, sheltering beneath Winterfell where the castle and its hot springs provided warmth reminded her of the importance of water back home, how people gathered near oases, turned even the bitterest sources of water into something at least tolerable.

 

 

“And what of you in all this, Theon Greyjoy? Do you ride with my husband or go back to that project of yours at the Saltspear?”

 

 

Theon smiles, a sharp smile full of dangerous mischief. “I remain here with you, my lady. Lord Eddard sent word that I was to be kept close to Winterfell and Robb agrees, though not for the reasons his father has. Lord Stark is sentimental enough to still believe that holding me gives him a bargaining tool with my father. Robb and I know better.”

 

 

Allyria frowns at him. “What do you mean? That is why you are here, is it not?”

 

 

Theon drains his goblet. “It's why I was brought here, yes. But you see, three years ago I wrote to my sister and to my father, asking for news. Asha had written a few times before, my father never did. But this last time, he made an exception, to tell me that I was disinherited and Asha is his heir. Asha wrote to tell me that I'd been here too long, the longship captains were more like to kill me than follow me. My father holds me responsible for being raised here, although it was his war that caused it. Lord Stark says my father could not have meant it, that even if he did I am his heir, he cannot change that. He and our newly-dead King Robert wanted a puppet kraken, but now my father only sees a wolf.”

 

 

“Not a wolf, more a jackal, I think,” Allyria tells him, thinking of Shiera's pet, raised from a pup not unlike the Starks' direwolves. “You've too much mischief in you to be a wolf, but jackals aren't so different.”

 

 

“Well, we shall see, won't we? Anyway, Robb wants me here, although he'll be leaving you in charge. Ser Rodrik and I will be your swords if you need them, how do you like that?”

 

 

Allyria looks Theon over with a pretended disdain, before smiling. “Not too bad, Greyjoy. Do you think we'll have anything to do?”

 

 

Theon's lips twist, but he does not answer, and Allyria thinks that whatever he thinks is coming, it has something to do with his Saltspear project, and perhaps with those letters he'd mentioned.

 

 

<><><>

 

 

Tyrion has never before attended such a conference, but all things considered, he'd rather not have the dubious honor now. Yes, there is something heady in finally being part of what he was born to be, but given the trouble they're in...

 

 

Again he thinks that if only Cersei could have been practical enough to tolerate birthing one child for Robert, just one black-haired babe to throw off suspicions, they would be far better off today. But there's no point in the thought, is there? He focuses instead on the talk of strategy, paying careful attention if not saying anything. There's little he can add to the conversation, after all; while he's read a great deal of books on war, he knows that his father, uncle, and brother has real-world experience that he lacks.

 

 

Still, there is one point where he almost speaks up. “The Steward of Lannisport died three weeks ago,” Lord Tywin says. “I am going to appoint Damon in his place. His mother was a Lannisport Lannister, that should keep them from grumbling. And I will not have a repeat of the disaster during Greyjoy's Rebellion. Lannisport needs to be fully under our control, no middlemen.”

 

 

That strikes Tyrion as a possibly bad idea – his father claims that Damon's mother being the old Steward's sister will prevent the problems that would otherwise result from the bronze lion losing the remaining power they have in their city, but can they be certain? His father very rarely puts revenge ahead of ruthless good sense, but one could argue that the complete extermination of Houses Reyne and Tarbeck – rather than, say, rearing child heirs of the houses to be loyal replacements – was such a case. Renly said so more than once, when he and Tyrion took to debating politics. Could this be another such case?

 

 

 

He doesn't speak up, though, in the end. He has a different argument to make, and he feels he ought to put all his force of persuasion behind that. Besides, he is not familiar enough with the Lannisport Lannisters to make a strong case. So he merely listens as Jaime is ordered to the Riverlands to start attacking Tully lands and thus prevent them from having the time to gather their forces and join with the Starks. Their father intends to join him, while Uncle Kevan is to watch the south against a Baratheon move. Robb Stark is marching, this they know, but while Renly managed to escape the city it's impossible to say if he went straight for Storm's End or if he went to Dragonstone to find out what Stannis is doing. And Stannis has been utterly silent on his dreary island; what precisely he means to do is anyone's guess.

 

 

 

Or rather, it would be if Tyrion wasn't convinced that Stannis knows precisely whose son Joffrey is, but since he cannot say as much to his father, they must continue to act as if Stannis' plans are unfathomable.

 

 

 

“It will take them time to muster,” Kevan says thoughtfully of the Baratheon brothers. “Renly and Stannis must coordinate their plans, after all – and then they must figure out their allies. Robb Stark is marching independently of anyone, and we will have the Tullys distracted. There are Renly's ties to House Tyrell, but Stannis despises them.”

 

 

 

It's the best opening Tyrion will get. “But we should court southern allies, yes, as well as have Uncle Kevan watching?” he asks, doing his best to keep his voice mild.

 

 

 

“And who do you suggest we speak to?” Lord Tywin says with scorn. “The Tyrells? Joffrey's betrothal means less than nothing now; Mace Tyrell won't go against his favorite children, and the both of them are in Renly Baratheon's bed. The most we can hope for there is that it takes time for him to come to terms with Stannis, and that reprieve will not last forever. Myrcella's betrothal to Quentyn Martell should have appeased them enough to keep Dorne from turning on us, but I do not believe

 

 

 

“Which is why Joffrey's betrothal should be ended and our new king married to a young lady who can bring us more useful allies. Such a girl is already present at court – among Lady Elinor's retinue, as it happens. A cousin of ours, Lady Osgrey.”

 

 

 

“Why would we do that? The chit seems clever enough, but her lands aren't large or powerful. They're near our borders, which I suppose will give Uncle Kevan a small levy of extra men, but what are you aiming for, Tyrion?” Jaime asks him, frowning. Still, at least he knows Tyrion well enough to realize there's a plan here.

 

 

“Lady Rohanne's mother is Selyse Florent,” Tyrion explains. “She was to wed Stannis Baratheon before Jon Arryn chose to match him with Ashara Dayne. If that wasn't bad enough, at Stannis' wedding Robert deflowered Delena Florent – who was supposed to marry Willas Tyrell and finally get a child of Florent blood back in as the heir to Highgarden. Now, one of the other half-Florent girls might be even better – they're Tarlys, after all – but there's no guarantee that Randyll Tarly can be persuaded to throw Tyrell over, though I think there's a chance. But the Florents already broke from the Reach once, to join the Baratheons during Robert's Rebellion. I think they'd do it again for the promise of Highgarden, not just the hope they had then.”

 

 

 

Tyrion pauses to sip his wine. For once, they all three are listening to him,. “And with them may come other houses. Their natural allies such as the Cranes, and not only them. Lord Hightower is wed to a Florent; his daughter is Lady of Highgarden but the conflict of interest may slow his response – which at worst will weaken our enemies, even if it does not improve our list of allies. But more than that, what of the Oakhearts, who despise House Dayne and will not want to bow to a Queen of that House? And Marcher lords in both the Reach and mayhaps the Stormlands? They tolerated Martells and a Dayne from the Targaryens, yes, but will they tolerate a Dornish queen from a Baratheon who furthermore has reason to resent the Reach? They know Renly will speak for the Tyrells, but with no such assurance for the rest of them, will they take the chance? I think perhaps not all of them.”

 

 

 

There is a long silence, his father and uncle exchanging a look as Jaime smirks over at him. “Who knew you would be such a matchmaker, little brother?” he drawls. Tyrion shrugs and silence falls as Lord Tywin mulls the idea over.

 

 

 

“Very well,” Lord Tywin rules eventually. “You will go yourself, Tyrion, as this is your plan. Your Aunt Genna will accompany you. I expect you to send a raven as soon as we have finished our business here, and to depart as soon as you receive a response, should it be favorable.”

 

 

 _Aunt Genna sent along in case just sending the dwarf is an insult? Why not just say so, Father?_ Tyrion thinks scornfully. Admittedly, if he must have familial company that is not Jaime, at least Aunt Genna is pleasant company. And for the moment, the important thing is that his plan has been accepted. If the Florents agree, and Tyrion is confident that there is a good chance of that, then they can come to terms. And he will finally have examples of usefulness on which to trade.

 

 

It is somewhere to begin, at least.

 

 

 

<><><>

 

 

Catelyn barely notices Maester Colemon's hovering as she reads the letter from Winterfell. It is written in Maester Luwin's hand, because Robb has already –

 

 

 

She sinks into the closest chair, the paper shaking in her hands. The Lords Declarant, now in charge here at the Eyrie, had already told her of Robert's death and Joffrey's accession, his hurried coronation. They had also told her that all the great lords were summoned to pledge their loyalty, that Tywin Lannister had replaced Ned as Hand of the King, but they had not troubled to tell her the things that mattered most.

 

 

Perhaps it was because she is Lysa's sister, perhaps it is simply because they do not know her, or they may even have thought they were being kind, but Catelyn cannot seem to care. Ned imprisoned, accused of supporting Lord Stannis in a bid for the throne. Briefly, she thinks of her husband's bastard and his mother, Stannis' wife and stepson, wonders if somehow they got to Ned. But no. While Ashara Dayne may be that sort of ambitious – Catelyn does not know the woman enough to say – Jon is very much Ned's son. If he were to have tried to sway Ned, it would be because his Lannister wife swayed him, which is why Catelyn again wonders if the boy is a risk to her sons' inheritance. But the Lannisters would never go against Joffrey.

 

 

And there is the character of Lord Stannis, not someone to rebel without cause. He is known as scrupulous in his duty, his observance of the laws. He is also the only one who knows the full breadth of what Jon Arryn was studying prior to his death, as Ned had told her before she left. Did he know something that would lead to him rebelling? Is he truly rebelling, with the intent of deposing Joffrey, or does he merely wish to chase the Lannisters out of royal power? Where does Renly, also accused of conspiracy with his brother and with Ned, stand in it all?

 

 

Robb's letter clarifies none of this. All her son tells her is that he received the summons to court, followed by word that the Lannisters are marching on the Riverlands – their excuse being that Edmure did not arrive in a timely manner to swear fealty – and taken together, Robb had made the decision to go south indeed, but not to pledge his loyalty. Instead, he's going with an army, to assist the Riverlands and then free Ned. Ned and Rickon, although Robb's letter also says that there is no direct word of Rickon.

 

 

Rickon unaccounted for, Ned in prison, Bran with Edmure and thus arming for war as his squire, Robb leading an army south... Sansa is safe in Highgarden at least, and happy if her demeanor at her wedding was any judge; Arya is on her way to Dorne and safe as well, as safe as anyone on a sea voyage can be. Her girls are protected, but her boys and her husband...

 

 

And Father, and Lysa. For it is not only Father dying in Riverrun, waiting for his daughters to say farewell. Lysa will not make it, Catelyn knows. Her sister burns with fever, even as her newborn daughter passes into the care of a wet nurse. No one in the Eyrie is terribly happy that their little lord's new heir is an infant girl, but Catelyn overheard one of the maids saying that at least the girl is a healthy baby, unlike her brother, sickly from birth.

 

 

Catelyn does not find Robin so sickly – he is not strong, it's true, and sometimes he seems to watch the air for something that is not present, but the boy is intelligent and courteous. His closeness to young Ser Harrold makes Catelyn wonder how much the boy knew of the lords who had placed him under siege.

 

 

But she cannot think on it for long, even as she tries to force herself to. She is here, in the Eyrie, perhaps even able to exert some kind of influence. When it comes to her husband, her sons, her father and brother, she is helpless; but they are all she can think of. She does not know how long she sits there for, the letter in her lap, fears and prayers running through her mind, is barely aware of the maester leaving.

 

 

“Lady Stark?”

 

 

The voice of Ser Harrold makes Catelyn jerk in surprise, Robb's letter falling to the floor. “Yes, Ser Harrold?” she says, her voice shockingly calm.

 

 

“It's Lady Lysa, my lady. She...” He pauses, looking uncomfortable. “Maester Colemon believes the end to be near. Robin is with her, as is your uncle Ser Brynden. We thought...”

 

 

Yes. Of course. Catelyn nods, rising from her seat and following this half-grown boy, only a little older than Robb, to her sister's bedchamber. The air is close and stale inside, smoky with the hearth fire stoked high to try and keep Lysa warm. Catelyn's nephew sits by his mother's bed, holding her hand as she murmurs incoherently. Catelyn sits on the other side of the bed, taking her sister's other hand. She catches only snatches of what Lysa says in her fevered ranting – it sounds as though she is reliving childhood, because she keeps talking of Petyr and their children, daydreams she had only ever confided in an uncomfortable Cat. Now Cat holds her sister's hand, reaches forward to stroke her hair as she did for her children when they were feverish. But she thinks – She does not want to think it, but she does not think Lysa will wake.

 

 

Uncle Brynden stands by the door, a lost look in his eyes, and Catelyn wonders if he is remembering her mother, who died the same way. She knows her uncle adored his goodsister, that Minisa Whent Tully's death had led to great sorrow for him as well as for her father. But she cannot ask. All she can do is sit there, until Lysa's hand trembles a little in hers before her sister goes silent, one last breath escaping in a long sigh – and then nothing. Nothing but the silence, and Cat thinking of a laughing little girl, an angry young woman. Her sister who always seemed to think Catelyn held herself above her, and Cat never understood why, never saw what made Lysa struggle so. And now, now...

 

 

 

Robert is quickly ushered out by Ser Harrold, and Catelyn distantly realizes that her uncle is doing the same for her. “I came to find out what she knew,” she tells her uncle in a voice hollow with shock and grief. “She wrote me to say that the Lannisters murdered her husband, and because of that Ned was looking into his death. And now – you know, don't you?”

 

 

 

“Yes. I have been informed. And I am leaving. These lords... They respect me but they do not trust me. They're afraid I'll hold a grudge for the siege, when only a fool could look at Robin and Harry and not realize that they at least are working hand in glove already. There are those who will come with me, swords to bring to Riverrun – not to mention the men at arms who came with you, though neither are a large number. I'm still a Tully, and you are a Tully and a Stark – our place is where we can do something for our kin. Robin will be all right, and if we are gone it will go easier for him if he finds himself caught between sides in this war.”

 

 

 

There is nothing here for us, her uncle is saying, and Catelyn can only agree. Lysa is gone, leaving her son as a boy lord with a council of regents and her infant daughter Alayne an orphan. Something about the name gives Catelyn pause; it sounds familiar, in a way that is disquieting, but she cannot recall why she would know it. But she cannot care much either, because her uncle is right. If they leave, they can help Ned and Robb, Father and Edmure and Bran, she will be better placed for word of Rickon.

 

 

 

There are no answers in the Eyrie now, and it is far too late for whatever they might have been.

 

 

 

<><><>

 

 

Shiera's breathing stirs the water in the bowl just slightly as she leans over it, staring into the depths with her eyes unfocused. Her old nurse had told her of chants used to call forth images in the water, but unlike her tricks for finding water sources, those had never worked. But Shiera had struck up a friendship with Sarella Sand while they were at the Water Gardens together, and now that Sarella is masquerading as a boy at the Citadel, studying under an Archmaester who devotes much time to magic, she knows that another trick is to clear one's mind, to stare with unfocused eyes into whatever tool you use to see.

 

 

It works far better. Not that she ever sees anything of use, blurred images that flicker and are gone usually before she can make sense of them. But she tries every morning and every night, hoping that practice will improve her skill.

 

 

“Shiera! What are you doing?”

 

 

Shiera jumps, knee banging painfully against the table and sending her bowl toppling over. For a moment all she can see is that last, surprisingly clear image of a woman _staring back at her_ through flame, a woman with hair and eyes red as the ruby at her throat. Shaking her head to clear it, she gives Ancharia Dayne a thin smile. “Nothing, cousin Simply at my morning prayer.”

 

 

“With a bowl of water?” Sylva japes, rolling her eyes. “You are odder than Garin sometimes and he's a true Greenblood orphan, not just reared by one! Come now, the princess expects us. And she says leave that dog of yours behind, he's not welcome.”

 

 

With a sigh, Shiera follows the other girl from the small bedchamber they share, and does not remind her that Brynden is a jackal, not a dog – they think him a tame pet and if it means everyone calls him a dog, well, it makes it less likely someone will decide to kill her familiar. Ancharia is a Dayne of High Hermitage, the poor thing younger sister to Gerold Dayne, who likes to call himself Darkstar. For two years now the pair of them have been attached to Princess Arianne's household, as the only representatives available from House Dayne, given that Jon's marriage had not yet taken place when the offer was made, and Edric's betrothal not even finalized. For the most part, Shiera simply takes her place as it is, not thinking about it too hard.

 

 

But here at Kingsgrave as guests of House Manwoody, the castle closest to the ruin of what was once called the Tower of Joy, Shiera cannot help but think of the reactions should anyone know that Lyanna Stark's daughter by Rhaegar Targaryen now serves Elia Martell's niece. But there's no point to such thoughts.

 

 

In the princess's chambers, there is something much more important to wonder about – their princess is dressing as a Dornish bride, holding a veil of golden lace up to her hair, shades lighter than the dark gold of her gown. “What...?” Shiera breathes, in spite of herself. From where she stands next to her cousin, Tyene Sand laughs.

 

 

“Oh, you silly thing, didn't you know Arianne came here to be married?”

 

 

Shiera does not much like Tyene Sand. When she was a girl in the Water Gardens with Allyria, her 'cousin' had bonded with the princess and the older Martell bastards, but Shiera had always preferred the company of Sarella. The two of them had been near inseparable, Prince Oberyn calling them the Sand twins and ruffling their hair when he came to visit his daughters. Of the others, Nymeria is well enough, and Shiera has never had much to do with Obara, but Tyene's sweetness like poisoned honey grates on her nerves. But she is forever with the princess, and so Shiera has grown accustomed to pretending she likes her.

 

 

 

“Tyene, leave Shiera be,” Arianne says lightly. “Of course she didn't know, almost no one did. That was the entire point of alll this. Come help me with this veil, Shiera.”

 

 

Obediently, Shiera goes to her, taking up pins to properly secure the golden lace. “My princess, who are you marrying?”

 

 

“Lord Dagos' brother Ser Myles,” Arianne says, studying her reflection with a composed look on her face. “That will do. Ancharia, my face paints.”

 

 

Shiera steps back for Ancharia to have room, biting the inside of her cheek as she thinks this over. Ser Myles, the younger half-brother to Lord Dagos, is also the nephew of Franklyn Fowler, the Lord of Skyreach, fostered with his uncle. He and his brother are not close, but Myles is close to both of his nephews, Mors and Dickon. A second son unlikely to inherit, but connected to two great houses, one of which is a rival to the Yronwoods, who are close to Prince Quentyn...

 

 

Prince Doran has never seriously tried to match his daughter with anyone. Every offer he entertained has always been one that it was clear the princess would never agree to, eminently unsuitable for the heiress of Dorne. Shiera's heard rumors that Arianne tried to arrange matches herself, to the heirs of other great houses, but was always stopped. Why Prince Doran keeps her unmarried no one has ever guessed, though some have wondered if he means to place his son above his daughter.

 

 

 

It seems that Princess Arianne is determined not to let that happen. Shiera remembers suddenly an odd comment the princess had made when Shiera sought leave from her household to attend Jon's wedding at home in Starfall. “A pity your cousin is marrying a Lannister, he could have done better,” she'd said before giving permission. At the time, Shiera had taken it as nothing more than the justified dislike of a Martell for a Lannister, but now...

 

 

A younger son of a noble house, with connections to others. Ser Myles is a good choice, a charming man well liked by most, respected by his brother even if they share no great bond, a favorite of his uncle, and an older-brother figure to his nephews. But if Jon had been free, he could plausibly have brought to Arianne links to a cadet branch of the royal house as well as to the Starks and Daynes – although his status as a legitimized bastard might have given difficulty. Still, was that the reasoning behind Arianne's odd comment?

 

 

Shiera pushes away the thoughts as they make for Kingsgrave's sept. Like most septs in Dorne, the sept is circular rather than seven-sided, the individual altars of each of the Seven surrounding the pews and central altar so that none can say any of the Seven-Who-Are-One's facets is counted above the others. Of course, another common sight in Dorne were the candles crowding for place at the altars of Mother, Maiden, and Crone – the Warrior with a fair few of them as well, the Smith and Father less, and the Stranger almost none. Ser Myles waits before the central altar, incense smoke filling the air around him. Lord Dagos, his wife, and his sons are in the front pews, as are Lord Fowler and his twin daughter, Obara and Nymeria Sand, and the others of the princess' household. Tyene, Ancharia, and Shiera join them.

 

 

The princess pauses at the altars of the Maiden and Mother, to light two scented candles of her own as is expected of a new bride. Then she joins her husband to be at the central altar and the septon begins the ceremony.

 

 

It's only the third wedding Shiera has attended – the first a Northern ceremony followed by a second one in the sept at Winterfell when Allyria married Robb Stark, the second Jon and Joy's cobbled-together ceremony with its elements of the Faith, the Northern traditions, and the religion of the Winged Lady. So the seven prayers and hymns are familiar – though she recalls the words were different at Winterfell, the ones at Starfall much like these – while the sprinkling of water over Princess Arianne and Ser Myles' joined hands is something she hasn't seen before, though she knows it to be a blessing of fertility – in a desert land peopled in part by the descendants of river worshippers, what stronger symbol of life can there be but water?

 

 

After the ceremony ends, the feast follows, husband and wife drinking from one cup and laughing together. Shiera lets herself get caught up in the fun of it all, dancing and enjoying herself, but that night, when Ancharia does not return to their bedchamber but instead slips off with Dickon Manwoody, she refills her water bowl and stares down into it again, hoping for some hint of Princess Arianne's larger plans. Nothing, nothing...

 

 

A girl with hair the same color as Shiera's own, standing before a burning pyre, a man stabbed to death in a prison cell, face obscured by shadow, glowing blue eyes in a whirl of snow –

 

 

Pain shoots through Shiera's head and she stumbles back, closing her eyes. Brynden yips and Shiera sinks to her knees, cuddling him close. “I don't understand what's happening,” she whispers, clinging to her jackal like he is her only anchor, and just now it feels like he is.

 

 

<><><>

 

 

“In the place of the traitor Eddard Stark, it is the wish of His Grace that Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, take up the office of Hand of the King, to speak with his voice, lead his armies against his enemies, and carry out his royal will. So the king has decreed. The small council consents. In the place of the traitor Stannis Baratheon, it is the wish of His Grace that his lady mother, the Queen Dowager Cersei Lannister, who has ever been his staunchest support, be seated upon his small council, that she may help him rule wisely and with justice. So the king has decreed. The small council consents."  
  


  
Pycelle's voice does not carry well, Tyrek thinks, but luckily the throne room is designed for such things, and anyone who cannot hear him in the throng of courtiers will soon be informed by someone with sharper ears. That accounts for some of the murmurs, and some of course are discontent, but no one is stupid enough to object openly. So things quiet without trouble, and Pycelle continues.

  
  
"It is also the wish of His Grace that his loyal servant, Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing, be at once raised to the rank of lord and granted the ancient seat of Harrenhal with all its attendant lands and incomes, and that his sons and grandsons shall hold these honors after him until the end of time. It is moreover his command that Lord Slynt be seated immediately upon his small council, to assist in the governance of the realm. So the king has decreed. The small council consents."

 

 

Are they mad? Clearly Slynt did something regarding Lord Stark – Tyrek's heard that he brought the gold cloaks to help apprehend the Lord of Winterfell and prevent his attempt at a coup – but to give him Harrenhal? Uncle Tywin will be furious, a butcher's son to hold a castle built by a king? A butcher's son with a bloody spear as his sigil. By all the gods... But then they summon Ser Barristan and Tyrek stops thinking about Slynt.

 

 

“What are they doing?” Ty whispers, and Tyrek shakes his head, warning his squire and cousin to keep quiet. As Ser Barristan comes forward and removes his helm at Cersei's command, Tyrek has a terrible feeling he already knows. Joffrey is technically ruling in his own right at seventeen, but Cersei's place on the small council is an indication he won't be doing much direct ruling. Tyrek is unsurprised; while he's sure that Joffrey will enjoy administering his own idea of harsh justice from time to time, as well as giving orders that now must absolutely be obeyed, his whiny royal cousin isn't likely to have much interest in actually ruling. That he'll leave it to his mother, who does, is no surprise. What worriesTyrek is that while Cersei has the interest, he doesn't know that she has the talent. Nagging King Robert into doing what she wanted, even outwitting Lord Stark's attempt at... whatever it was he'd tried to do, is one thing. Day to day rule is something else entirely. And now this with Ser Barristan...

 

 

Lannisters running the council, running the country... There's only one top office at court the Lannisters don't have, unless one entertains the idea of an all-Lannister small council, which is of course completely impossible. They've already gone a bit beyond what is strictly necessary in demanding in-person oaths of fealty from just about every important noble house in the country – expected of the Starks and the other branches of House Baratheon, perhaps even of the Martells given their grudges, but the others? Of course the letters have all been sent out, probably days ago; it's just making it official to declare it now in open court. And now, summoning the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard forward...

 

 

Cersei begins to speak as Ser Barristan settles his helm under one arm, looking puzzled. "You have served the realm long and faithfully, good ser, and every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms owes you thanks. Yet now I fear your service is at an end. It is the wish of king and council that you lay down your heavy burden."  
  
"My... burden? I fear I... I do not... "  
  
  


"Her Grace is trying to tell you that you are relieved as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," Slynt tells him with bluntness as heavy as a cleaver.  
  
  


Ser Barristan seems almost to shrink. "Your Grace, the Kingsguard is a Sworn Brotherhood. Our vows are taken for life. Only death may relieve the Lord Commander of his sacred trust."  
  
  


"Whose death, Ser Barristan?" Cersei asks it in a soft voice that somehow still rings through the hall. "Yours, or your king's?"  
  
  


"You let my father die," Joffrey accuses from his place on the throne. "You're too old to protect anybody."

 

 

Did he, though? Tyrek's heard Red Walder's story of King Robert's death – at best, Ser Barristan is guilty of being unable to protect Robert from his own vice of drink, and what guard, however loyal, can do that anyway? At worst, though... Red Walder had told him how it was always Lancel refilling Robert's wineskin, that the wine seemed to take him more strongly than usual. Lancel is a knight now, chin lifted with pride in his new title, his besotted gaze following Cersei's every move. Cersei's no idiot, and she knows well her effect on men. It all adds up to a conclusion Tyrek would rather not consider.  
  
  


"Your Grace," Ser Barristan says slowly, for once looking truly aged yet drawing himself back up all the same, showing he is still the tall, white-haired figure Tyrek has always known him to be. "I was chosen for the White Swords in my twenty-third year. It was all I had ever dreamed, from the moment I first took sword in hand. I gave up all claim to my ancestral keep. The girl I was to wed married my cousin in my place, I had no need of land or sons, my life would be lived for the realm. Ser Gerold Hightower himself heard my vows... to ward the king with all my strength... to give my blood for his... I fought beside the White Bull and Prince Lewyn of Dorne... beside Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Before I served your father, I helped shield King Aerys, and his father Jaehaerys before him... three kings … "  
  
  


"And all of them dead," Littlefinger points out with lazy mockery.

  
  
"Your time is done," Cersei declares. "Joffrey requires men around him who are young and strong. The council has determined that Ser Jaime Lannister will take your place as the Lord Commander of Sworn Brothers of the White Swords."  
  


  
"The Kingslayer," Ser Barristan says, contempt in every syllable. "The false knight who profaned his blade with the blood of the king he had sworn to defend."  
  
  


"Have a care for your words, ser," Cersei snaps, eyes flashing dangerously. "You are speaking of our beloved brother, your king's own blood."

 

 

But he's right, Cersei, Tyrek wants to say – he likes Jaime well enough but it is the truth. He listens with his own contempt growing as they offer Barristan a grant of land to retire to, unable to resist smiling when the old knight refuses, tossing his cloak to the floor and declaring that he will live and die as a knight.

 

 

“A naked knight, it would seem,” Littlefinger quips, mocking again. The court bursts into laughter, even Ty chuckling softly when he realizes everyone else is, even Elinor Tyrell and her household, although their laughter is the nervous tittering of a group that fears themselves among enemies. Tyrek, though, grits his teeth and keeps his expression blank – and he _knows_ that Cersei sees him. He stares back at her even as her eyes narrow, refusing to be cowed.

 

 

Then Ser Barristan draws his sword, cutting off all laughter in an instant. Someone gasps, and Boros Blount and Meryn Trant start forward to confront him. But Ser Barristan looks at them with cold disgust. "Have no fear, sers, your king is safe – no thanks to you. Even now, I could cut through the five of you as easy as a dagger cuts cheese. If you would serve under the Kingslayer, not a one of you is fit to wear the white." He pauses long enough to fling his sword at the foot of the Iron Throne, turning that contempt on Joffrey now. "Here, boy. Melt it down and add it to the others, if you like. It will do you more good than the swords in the hands of these five. Perhaps Lord Stannis will chance to sit on it when he takes your throne."

 

 

Tyrek wants to applaud, even more so as Ser Barristan strides from the hall, his footsteps echoing in the stunned silence. Of course, daring to call Joffrey boy and mentioning Stannis are the worst of crimes, so almost as soon as the doors shut behind the storied knight, Joffrey is shrieking for his arrest. In the face of Ser Barristan's calm fury, Joffrey's sputtering rage is embarrassing, as is his choice to put Sandor Clegane on the Kingsguard. He's good, Tyrek will admit that, and his service deserves reward but it's Slynt all over again, giving too much to someone who should not hold it, someone moreover who is entirely dependent on his family.

 

 

The murmurs continue to grow, and Tyrek pushes his way out of the hall, telling Ty to go find one of his uncles so he doesn't get in trouble for leaving early. He goes out to the battlements, leaning out to stare at the city to one side and the harbor to the other, doing his best to ignore the heads of the Stark household on spikes above him.

 

 

“All right there, little brother?”

 

 

Tyrek glances over as one of the red cloaks stationed up here approaches, leaning on the wall as well. Perran Hill is the eldest of his three bastard brothers, born to Tygett Lannister's long-time mistress. Gwyn owns the Dancing Cat, a tavern in Lannisport, and all three of her boys inherited her dark mischievous eyes, but they, like Tyrek, inherited their father's height, golden hair, and skill at arms. Rhys too is in the city, serving among the gold cloaks, while Aymery is in one or another of the Free Cities, working as a sellsail and carefully winning away comrades to make his own sellsail company.

 

 

“Our king's an idiot,” Tyrek says quietly. “But yes, I suppose I'm all right. For now.”

 

 

“Hmm. Aymery's sent word, you know. Coming back to visit, he's got his people anchored at Pentos.”

 

 

“Has he now? Will he bring them to Joffrey's aid if need be?”

 

 

“He'd bring them to yours.” _Wherever you happen to be_ , goes unsaid.

 

 

This is one reason why Tyrek wanted to know his half-brothers, bastards though they are. He is the orphan of a third son, with little chance of an inheritance, only what remained of the money Lord Tytos had left to his son. But there was some, and Tyrek had the name. The name, and his father's skill for fighting, and three half-brothers who had the extra years of experience and the charm to win some of their fellows to their side. But, lacking a name, they needed a patron of some kind. Who better than a brother who needed an affinity but had no land to create one from?

 

 

He hasn't spoken of it even to Joy, but it's a plan he's proud of. And, discomfited still by what he's just seen, by the memory of Jaime's advice to choose a side, he does not say that his aid is of course his king's aid. He says nothing, in fact, as he and Perran watch the world below.

 

 

Until the silence is broken by running footsteps. A wide-eyed Ty is in the doorway when Tyrek looks around. “Gods, Ty, what is it?” The boy is flushed from his run, eyes wide and shocked.

 

 

“It's Lord Stark! Someone – the king's dagger, the one with the dragonbone hilt?”

 

 

Tyrek knows it, having sharpened every weapon in King Robert's collection more than once. He only ever used the old hunting knife Jon Arryn had given him, and would sometimes tell his squires to take their pick of daggers to use when they hunted with him. Tyrek's used the dragonbone-hilted one himself, but not often – he's always preferred one with a silver hilt, inlaid bronze wire forming the old runes of the First Men. A gift from the Royces, King Robert had said, and when he knighted Tyrek he'd given it to him, one of the many carelessly generous moments the old drunk had. Tyrek is wearing it now, in fact.

 

 

“I know it. What does it have to do with Lord Stark?”

 

 

“Well, you know how he'd taken a wound in his capture? They said he was feverish from it, and of course he was unarmed so he must not have – ”

 

 

“Tywin Frey!” Tyrek says, voice sharp as a very different Tywin's when he is out of patience. He takes his young squire by the shoulders and shakes him lightly, all too aware of Perran behind him and the other red cloaks watching from their posts. “ _What happened_?”

 

 

“Someone took the dagger and stabbed Lord Stark to death in his cell!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious about the little twists I've been putting on religion, I explain it further here: http://iron-and-silk.tumblr.com/post/152665972861/a-note-on-religion


	11. Interlude 5: Braavos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one expected a detour to Braavos, but now they may have to wait out a war in a manse with red doors...

The captain claims that word of storms is the reason for their diverting north, to dock at Braavos until things settle down, but somehow Alla does not believe him. The Martell brothers seem too unsurprised by the whole thing, which makes a lot more sense when Edric – Ned, he's told them to call him – comes to find her and Arya on the deck as Braavos comes into view.

 

 

 

As ever, he pauses to let Nymeria sniff his hands – she does not let him touch her, much less pet her the way Alla is welcome to do, but she has decided that he and Trystane can be allowed near her girls. A good thing too, given their betrothals, as Arya said their third day at sea, making both of them laugh. “I wanted to apologize to you both – and make it clear I had no idea about this.”

 

 

 

“No idea about what?” Arya asks, eyes narrowing in a way Alla recognizes – Sansa does the same thing when she thinks Garlan or Loras is teasing her. Perhaps they learned it from Lady Stark.

 

 

 

“It seems we're not going right to Sunspear. We're bound for Norvos first.”

 

 

 

“What?” both girls say together, and Nymeria goes from relaxed to standing at attention. Ned winces.

 

 

 

“Did you know that Prince Doran's wife is Norvoshi?” At their nods, he continues. “She left him, years ago. No one's quite sure what the last straw was, though all knew she was furious that Prince Quentyn was fostered at Yronwood – the Norvoshi don't believe in fostering, but she didn't leave till years later, so who knows what happened in the end? Anyway, she has a court in exile there, as a member of a highborn family there and a princess by marriage, her household's a mix of Norvoshi and Dornish. But we're going there, some kind of promise that she could meet her children's future spouses ahead of the marriage. They didn't say in case one of your families objected – Prince Doran really wants to keep his promise.”

 

 

 

“Why didn't he just say so?” Arya asks, scratching between Nymeria's ears to settle her. “My father wouldn't have objected, and it's not like you could refuse your liege lord, so Alla's parents would have understood – wouldn't they?” she adds, looking at Alla, who shrugs.

 

 

 

“Probably. Cousin Mace wanted the match, and I can't see him kicking up a fuss about an extra stop, not for me. Now, if for some reason Margaery was involved, or Loras, well, that'd be different. But it's just me, so there wouldn't be trouble.”

 

 

 

“You're not just anything!” Arya says fiercely, which makes Alla smile, although she knows better in the scheme of things amongst House Tyrell.

 

 

 

Ned is watching them with an odd little smile. “You two remind me of me and Trys, you know. Good thing we're all marrying each other.”

 

 

 

“You make it sound like we'll all be in the sept together,” Alla quips.

 

 

 

“Well, for all I know, we might be,” Ned says with a shrug. “Hasn't been decided yet, actually, though probably not since I should wed at Starfall and Trys at Sunspear. But you never really know, do you? Anyway, so that's why we're detouring north, though I'm told the stop in Braavos really is due to something about the weather.”

 

 

 

“Do you believe it?” Alla asks, as Arya turns to study the approaching Braavosi coastline. She isn't the only one – further down, Princess Myrcella is doing the same, leaning out far enough she looks like she'd take flight if she could. _She ought to take a winged lion for her personal badge_ , Alla thinks, amused.

 

 

 

Looking back at Ned, she's disconcerted to see that his purple eyes are troubled. “Truth – and you'll both want to hear this,” he says, and waits until Arya looks back his way. “Truth is, with the Martells, the gods only know. Everyone talks about Prince Oberyn and how dangerous he is, but Prince Doran is clever and patient. There's not always some other level to his planning, but the trouble is you can't ever tell when there is, and they work together a lot more than people think.”

 

 

 

“Doesn't that get exhausting?” Arya asks, frowning.

 

 

 

“Dear gods, yes, which is why Trys likes to come out to Starfall and stay with me. You won't mind, will you? You're as welcome as he is, you know.”

 

 

“I saw it when Jon got married, I wouldn't mind visiting again, not at all.”

 

 

 

Alla looks at them together, her betrothed and her – friend, and she thinks that they can manage this just fine. What 'this' is she isn't quite sure yet, but they get along, don't they? She and her future husband, Arya and hers, and all four of them together? That can only be to the good, and it makes her hopeful of... something. She doesn't think she has the words, yet, but she's trying to understand what it is she hopes for.

 

 

 

Then they dock, and come down the gangplank to the sight of a man Alla has never seen in person, but can recognize anyway. She's heard far too many descriptions of the Red Viper not to know him on sight, and all she can think is that Oberyn Martell being here to meet them means trouble.

 

 

 

Once he sits them all down and tells them what's happening at home, she knows that she's right.

 

 

 

<><><>

 

 

 

“Remind me again why we're in Braavos? And how your uncle even knew to meet us here?” Ned asks, raising his eyebrows. Trys shrugs, fiddling with his cyvasse piece.

 

 

 

“We're on our way to Norvos, as you know, and I really think that Uncle Oberyn was only pretending to be expecting us.”

 

 

 

Ned leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “You know that isn't what I meant, Trys. You and your brother never _mentioned_ there would be a side trip to Norvos; as far as anyone knew we were going right back to Sunspear. We've got our trio of brides here, and none of their kin knew we'd be taking them to the Free Cities – even with your uncle's news, and the complications from it, that's still a problem, maybe more of one than it would have been otherwise. Not to mention my kin didn't know, and I'm Lord of Starfall.”

 

 

 

“My father does not like to draw attention to his estrangement from my mother, but he wanted to keep this promise at least. We're also meant to see if she will consent to return to Sunspear to actually attend the weddings, but I find that less likely.” Trys sighs. “Although it turns out he won't be able to keep that promise when it comes to Arianne...”

 

 

 

“What possessed her, do you think?”

 

 

 

“Quentyn, as usual. I don't know why, but she has always been convinced that Father means Quentyn to succeed her. And to be fair, while he never says as much anywhere in earshot of Arianne, _Quentyn_ seems fairly sure of it himself, or so Alesander says. She must think her marriage will help her fight any move to disinherit her, although our father could also use her disobedience as an excuse.”

 

 

 

“What if Prince Doran does intend to disinherit her? What if he really always wanted to?”

 

 

 

“I won't say that it's impossible, not when both Arianne and Quentyn seem to think it. They're both intelligent, and they barely speak to each other, so whatever reasons they've both found they came up with independently. But if he really wanted to, why didn't he let her marry Renly Baratheon or Edmure Tully, or especially Willas Tyrell? Our people would never consent to being ruled from another kingdom, particularly not the Reach, and it would be an honorable way to displace her. Instead, he kept offering ridiculous marriages she'd never consent to. I don't know what he had in mind, but I don't think that was it. It doesn't make any sense.”

 

 

 

Ned has to agree with that. It doesn't make any sense, and now Princess Arianne has married Ser Myles Manwoody, giving her ties to both that house and the Fowlers through Ser Myles' maternal bloodline. It's a good move for someone ready to defend her claim to her title, and the best she'll have given that the Yronwoods are tied to Quentyn. Ned can't blame Arianne, really – it's who he would choose, given who is still free. It isn't arrogance, he thinks, to feel that Arianne might have considered him, or even Jon, under other circumstances, given how well-connected House Dayne has become, but for purely Dornish connections he can't think of anyone available who is better than Myles Manwoody.

 

 

 

Still, given Quentyn's ties to the Yronwoods, and his betrothal to Princess Myrcella... “It can't be her last move, can it?” Ned would never say he's got a true talent for politics – Allyria was always better at those lessons than he was, took to it more naturally – but he's been taught as any young lord would be, and anyway it's obvious. Arianne will need to combat Quentyn's connections as much as possible, but how? She can use her children once she bears them, but if Ned were her...

 

 

 

“I imagine I may soon have the very interesting experience of my elder siblings finally taking notice of me,” Trystane says, his voice dry as dust. “My betrothed is a Stark, kin to two more Great Houses through her mother's family, her elder sister wed to the heir of the Reach, her half-brother related to, what, most of the Great Houses _she_ isn't tied to, one way or another? Even with what Uncle Oberyn told us of the mess at home, that's a powerful lot of connections. And they know that as I go...” He trails off, suddenly looking uncertain.

 

 

 

Ned can't abide that look. Though they'd talked of possibly putting aside what they are to each other, now that they are both to wed, he can't bear to do it, can he? He leans across the table to kiss Trystane softly, comfort more than anything else. “As you go, so I go,” he says flatly. “And most of the ties Lady Arya can boast, I have as well, one way or another. The question here, Trys, is that if it comes to it, who will you choose?”

 

 

 

Trystane shrugs, getting up to pace the small cabin. “I don't know. I don't know at all. Arianne has the right, but Father hasn't really trained her. He's left her to running entertainments – which has helped her win people's affection, but isn't necessarily practical. Quentyn's got better training, but it's from the Yronwoods. I'm fairly sure that giving my brother Dorne is setting a Yronwood puppet prince to rule. The trouble is that it's either side with one of them, or rival both of them. I highly doubt I'll be able to quietly stay out of it.”

 

 

 

“You sound inclined to rival them, if it comes to it,” Ned observes, not sure what he thinks about that except that where Trystane goes, so will he, and he'll bring House Dayne to his prince's cause whatever it may end up being.

 

 

 

“Not as such, no. I'm more inclined to knock both their heads together along with my father's _and_ my uncle's. I'm sure Uncle Oberyn has something to do with it all – you know as well as I that my father and uncle work hand in glove, they just take different parts of a thing and seem to be more apart than they are. So whatever reason my father had for cutting Arianne out, my uncle knew about it and went along with it, if it wasn't his idea at least as much. Something just isn't right here, and now it looks as though it may tear my family apart. And Dorne. So no, I don't want to rival them, but if it's the only way to keep this from becoming a disaster, I will.”

 

 

 

<><><>

 

 

Prince Oberyn knows the Sealord, or something like that, and he arranged for them to stay here in Braavos, in a pretty manse with red doors until – until –

 

 

 

Until the fighting's done.

 

 

 

He explained why, and Arya knows it's good sense. It's because of her and Myrcella, mostly – their families are at war with each other now, and Prince Oberyn said no one's sure what Alla's kin are going to do yet. Sansa's there, married to Lord Willas, but Lady Margaery is married to Renly Baratheon and no one knows what the Baratheons are doing yet either.

 

 

 

But Arya's father –

 

 

 

It could be worse. Princess Myrcella's father is dead, her awful brother Joffrey the new king – and, if it matters to her, her betrothed has gone off somewhere with his uncle on family business. But Joffrey's locked up Arya's father, claiming he's a traitor, which means Father could be killed at any time. Robb is trying to stop it, by marching south, only the Lannisters have sent men into the Riverlands to cause trouble for Mother's family. Robb will have to help them too, and that will take time. Father in a dungeon, Rickon missing, Bran is with Uncle Edmure so he'll be fighting battles just like Robb...

 

 

 

The lemon tree is no heart tree, but it's the best the house they're in can offer. Braavos, one of the servants told them, has no naturally-growing trees, but rich houses have a few in their gardens. This lemon tree is the biggest of them, so Arya takes Nymeria out here to kneel and pray to Father's gods. She and Alla went to the Sept of the Seas already, to light candles – Arya prefers the old gods to the Seven, but she'll try for all the protection her family can have.

 

 

 

She could fight too, if she were home, she thinks, picturing Needle tucked away in her trunk. But no, they're all to stay in Braavos and just wait.

 

 

 

“The little princess liked the lemon tree too,” says an old man, a gardener yanking weeds from around a flower bed. “She din't have no wolf like that, though.”

 

 

“Little princess?” Arya wants the distraction, needs to think about something else, anything else, so she turns toward the gardener with interest. “What princess?”

 

 

 

“Daenerys, her name was. Your mad king's little daughter. Sweet little thing, quiet, watched everything with those big purple eyes of hers. The boy could be an irritating little brat, though he wasn't so bad either, most of the time. But she used to play out here under the tree, or her brother would sit with her and tell her stories of how grand it'd be when they took their thrones back.”

 

 

 

The Targaryens. Arya remembers Septa Mordane and Maester Luwin talking about how the Mad King's younger children escaped to the Free Cities, to survive as best they could. But they had lived in _this_ house? _Here_ , where Prince Oberyn's friends had placed her and the others now? “What happened to them?” she asks, carefully. She thinks she's heard in passing that they're still alive, somewhere in Essos, but she had never been interested enough to note where.

 

 

 

“Oh, the knight who watched over them took ill and died, and children as they were, they had no coin or other worth to use to stay here. They were turned out right quick, and I've not seen nor heard anything since, but for a few jokes about the Beggar King. If you'll excuse me, I have work to finish, mistress.”

 

 

 

Arya wraps her arms around Nymeria's neck when she's alone again, trying to let the solid warmth of her direwolf comfort her. Robb will have Grey Wind and Bran will have Summer on the battlefield – and when Jon brings his stepfather in on their side, as he surely must, he will have Ghost. Rickon must have Shaggydog, wherever he's vanished to, right? Of course he must. She and Sansa are safe enough, and maybe once Arya knows Trystane a little better she can convince him that they should all sail for Dorne right now, and get his father to help defeat Joffrey.

 

 

 

But for now she's stuck here, in a pretty garden where a little princess used to play.

 

 

<><><>

 

 

Quentyn knows that his uncle does not care for him. Like Trystane - and Arianne - he believes that Quentyn is more a Yronwood than he is a Martell. Some days Quentyn half agrees with them, but if it is so, then Uncle Oberyn has no one to blame but himself. After all, Quentyn’s fostering was in apology for his uncle’s crimes. And so they do not get along, he and his uncle.

  
  


Because of this, Quentyn really rather resents being dragged off by Oberyn to the Lady and the gods of the Hammer know where. (In this he is Essosi, preferring the foreign gods of his grandfather and his mother to the Seven, as a comfort away from home and kin.) But he knows his uncle speaks with his father’s voice, or at least his father's goals in mind - this is one reason his fostering was necessary, as Lord Yronwood never truly believed Oberyn acted alone with his poisoned blade. So he has no choice. But once they are with the Moroshi trading caravan bound for the Dothraki Sea, he can no longer keep silent. “What are we doing?” he demands. When Oberyn merely smiles, Quentyn’s temper snaps.

  
  


  
  


“I am the heir of Dorne, and I have the right to know what we are doing.” He has never before dared to speak of it aloud, his father's promise that he will rule Dorne one day. It is to disinherit his sister, but surely Arianne has now done that herself, with her defiance.

  
  


 

“No, you are not,” Oberyn says lazily. “Your fate and your sister’s change again, to prove the gods just.”

  
  


 

“I don't understand.”

  
  


 

“Better Arianne or even little Trystane take Dorne than you, a Yronwood in Martell colors.”

  
  


 

“If I am, who is to blame for _that_ , Uncle?”

  
  


 

Oberyn blinks, then chuckles. “Finally, a hint of bite in you, boy. Very well. You see, your sister was to have been Queen, promised to the exiled King Viserys. But he is now dead, killed by the Dothraki khal he wed his sister to for an army of Dothraki screamers.”

  
  


 

“But Dothraki won't cross the sea, how did he ever think that would work?”

  
  


 

“He was Mad Aerys’ son. But now he is dead, and the rumor is that so is his killer, Khal Drogo. That makes young Princess Daenerys - Queen Daenerys, now - the last certain heir of House Targaryen.”

  
  


 

There is something odd in how he says that, but Quentyn cannot focus upon it yet. He and Arianne’s roles are switched, and Daenerys Targaryen is a widow… “I am already promised. You would have me forsworn?”

  
  


  
Oberyn waves a careless hand. “Myrcella Waters is a bastard born of incest, or so Eddard Stark declared, and of all the Usurper’s allies he is the only one with any decency, and known for an honest man. She is no princess, and between the Starks and Baratheons, the Lannisters will fall.” There is a vicious joy in Oberyn’s dark eyes as he makes this pronouncement, but Quentyn can understand this, given the fate of Aunt Elia and her children.

  
  


  
  


“Daenerys Targaryen is born of incest as well,” Quentyn says warily. “And she may be as mad as her father and her brothers.” Rhaegar was mad too, and in Dorne they know this – his madness was just the quieter kind, until he made off with a high lord's daughter and sent the realm into chaos.

  
  


  
  


“Ah, but legitimate incest, and she is a Targaryen.”

  
  


  
  


Quentyn leans forward, pressing his lips together. “It's said, uncle, that after Robert won, you wanted to declare for Viserys. Then, mayhaps, it would have worked – the Reach might have stayed loyal even if we were leading the way, depending on what deals were made, and some of the other loyalists may have too. But now? Even if you're right about Myrcella and her brothers, there's Stannis and his children, even Renly and his daughter. The realm is used to them as the larger royal family, they have good connections. Could a move to restore the Targaryens even work now?”

  
  


  
  


He can hear Lord Yronwood in his words, and if he can, so can Oberyn. His uncle's lip curls, but he only shrugs. “It will be civil war. Some will always question if Joffrey is truly Robert's son – if he is, and Stannis goes to war against him, he is as much a usurper as his brother was. It will serve as an opportunity.”

  
  


  
  


Quentyn nods and goes silent for a time. How is he supposed to convince a princess to marry him when her first husband was a Dothraki khal? He would presumably have a great deal of time to think about it before he met her. But there was also – “What did you mean, when you said that Daenerys Targaryen is the last _certain_ heir?”

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So one of my very favorite things about ASOIAF is how certain things pop in and out of different storylines - the Cinnamon Wind, the Inn at the Crossroads, Harrenhal. So I decided to use Dany's first home the same way.


	12. Watch the Flames Climb High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armies march as new alliances form, with lions and wolves alike scattered behind different battle lines.

 

 

“My father is dead, my brother is marching to war, and instead of being sent north to meet him and tell him why this is happening, I am to go to Starfall?” Jon asks, and it is a trial to say it calmly, a trial not to shout it. He curls his hands into white-knuckled fists so they will not shake, and does not dare look at Renly, only at Stannis.

 

 

 

If he looks at Renly, who _spoke_ to his father that last night, who might have been able to _help_ – he is not sure what he will do, officially still sworn to Renly's service or not.

 

 

 

“You are Edric Dayne's heir, and he is currently in Essos. In his absence, it falls to you to rally them, and Starfall is the only house in Dorne of whom we can be certain,” Stannis tells him. “The Martells are bound by marriage treaty to Stark and Lannister alike, and hold a grudge against us all.”

 

 

 

“For good reason,” Jon's mother murmurs, almost as if she cannot help it. “But Stannis is right, Jon. It must be a Dayne who rallies them, and I am needed here. I can write to your brother as his goodsister, and the mother of his half-brother. He is on the march at any rate, and you would be hard-pressed to catch him.”

 

 

 

“I would _not_ be the best messenger,” Jon insists. “Shiera's left Princess Arianne's service to avoid trouble with Prince Doran, she may be a bastard but she's the daughter of Arthur Dayne, the bannermen would come at her call too!” Shiera is not, of course, but the only two in this room who know that are Jon and his mother. The Dayne bannermen certainly do not. “Perhaps even more easily – I have the name, yes, but all know that I began as merely the Bastard of Winterfell, at least Shiera is the Bastard of Starfall, a local in a way I can never be.”

 

 

 

“Which is why you and Shiera will work together, but she can't lead the men. You can, and if a Dayne of Starfall is not present to do that, the Daynes of High Hermitage will try. That means Gerold Dayne, which can only end in some kind of disaster for us. You know that well, Jon.”

 

 

 

He _does_ know that, but it doesn't make things any easier. “I'll be ready to go at dawn,” he says tightly. “If you will excuse me.”

 

 

 

There is no godswood on Dragonstone. Of course there isn't, because the Targaryens never worshipped the old gods, with the possible exception of Queen Betha's children, or Bloodraven who was only a Targaryen bastard anyway. No more a true Targaryen than Jon will ever be a true Stark. That hasn't mattered much, since he took his mother's name and set aside the name Snow. Not until now. Not until he is one of two sons of Ned Stark of age, but he cannot rise up in his father's memory because he has a responsibilty to the kinfolk he chose when he chose his name.

 

 

 

There is no godswood here, but he prays anyway, prays to the old gods of the North, a part of the North as permanent in him as his Stark face, or Ghost who is with Joy now, guarding her. He doesn't need a godswood, he tells himself, as he prays for Robb and Bran, marching to war, for Rickon who has vanished, Arya on her ship. Even Sansa in Highgarden who must feel as utterly helpless as he does. He prays for his father's spirit, and hopes it's enough.

 

 

 

Then he goes to find Joy.

 

 

 

Joy is in bed, on the advice of her priestess-midwife of a cousin. Alianne isn't there when Jon arrives, only Ghost lying at the foot of the bed while Joy sits up with a book. She looks up to see him and sets it aside. “So they're still insisting you go to Starfall?” she asks as he comes to sit next to her. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and she leans into his side. It helps, a little, as he laces their fingers together.

 

 

 

“They are. I see the logic of it – we can't risk Gerold Dayne getting control of our forces. I just hate it. I want to be with Robb now, I should be with Robb. I should be with my brother so I can tell him the truth, bring both sides of my family together to stop this.”

 

 

 

“Why doesn't King Stannis want that, anyway?”

 

 

 

_King_ Stannis. His stepfather is King now, by all the laws of the realm. His _mother_ is Queen, his Baratheon half-siblings a prince and princess. Jon hasn't really let himself think too hard about that; the notion is too entirely strange. “I don't fully understand that myself. He seems to want to keep his intention to declare for the throne secret for now. To lull Cersei and her allies into complacency, perhaps. But my brother is already marching, and he and Stannis are kin by marriage, and through me. You'd think that would make him reach out, but he's being so stubborn! And Renly is focusing all his energy on his own bannermen and on his and Loras' plan to get Lord Tyrell on side.”

 

 

 

“We have the Tyrells – we have his favorite children on his side, one of them being Loras. Why is he so worried?”

 

 

 

“He's being cautious, I think.”

 

 

 

Joy sighs, laying her head on his shoulder. Jon turns his head so his face presses against her hair, breathing in the scent of the herb soap she likes to use. He's become so attuned to that scent, it's come to mean home for him. “Does your stepfather think that because of all the ties that exist, he doesn't have to reach out to Robb? That when he declares, the Starks and Tullys will just... join him, without any effort on his part?”

 

 

 

Jon actually had not thought of that, and he doesn't much care for the idea, really. “I hope not, because I'm not entirely sure that will work. If Robb has no one to declare for, what is he supposed to do? Just sit around as a rebel with no true goal in sight? He can't do that for long. And if he has to choose, then what will he choose?”

 

 

 

“I don't know. I wonder about Tyrek, how long he'll be willing to serve the likes of Joffrey and Cersei, but that isn't the same, and I know it,” Joy says. “Do you want me to write to Allyria again, or even to Robb directly? They are my goodbrother and goodsister, after all. I can write to them almost as freely as you can.”

 

 

 

“No, I don't want you to worry yourself too much. Not with Alianne already suggesting that you stay in bed, to be safe,” Jon says, running a hand through Joy's hair.

 

 

 

“As if you don't know I'll worry more if I can't do anything. I'm already helping Shireen with her lessons, and Arthur as well. I need something to occupy myself, and letters are as good as anything. I'll be what little help I can, and be the better for it. And you, Snow, know me well enough to know that.”

 

 

 

It makes him laugh, the first time he has since the news came of his father's death and Rickon's disappearance. “I do know you well enough,” he admits softly. “And yes, I think – I think the more letters we send the better. We can't put the whole truth in a letter, but... But it could be a start.”

 

 

“Then I will write to Robb and Allyria, and help care for Shireen and Arthur, and wait for our twins to come. I'll have them to show you, which means that while I do that, you must make sure you do not die in this war, do you hear me?”

 

 

 

<><><>

 

 

Her grandfather doesn't know about the little room off the great hall, of that Alyx is certain. If he had, he would have had it bricked up, to avoid eavesdroppers like her. No one else knows about the little room either, because always knowing more than the other maidens in the high chambers is how Alyx maintains her leadership of them. Well, that and being one of the oldest. Fair Walda, Fat Walda, Ami, and Roslin are closest in age to her, but of them, Fat Walda and Ami only care about pleasing themselves, Roslin's at Rosby with her brothers and has been since the Hand's tourney, leaving only Fair Walda as a problem.

 

 

 

She is prettier, but Alyx is smarter. And still a virgin, where Fair Walda very much is not. Of course, the men all look to her as their best chance to inherit the Twins, through her closer claim than most, when they aren't scheming to marry one of her little nieces to their little sons and make the claim that way. Alyx hasn't got that, which is why her goal is different. What she wants is to get as far from the Twins as she can, before Black Walder decides he doesn't mind her 'slanty' eyes after all. He'll fuck any lass who'll let him and some who won't, after all. But so far she is too Essosi for him – and worse, Braavosi, where so many peoples mingle.

 

 

 

She cannot change that she doesn't look quite like a proper Westerosi maiden, and in fact she would not do so if she could. She is proud to look like her mother, and anyway, it hadn't seemed to hurt her in King's Landing at the tourney. Unfortunately, her Crakehall kin had been less enthusiastic about her – they'd liked the twins, Sarra and Serra, who are now in the Westerlands in Lady Crakehall's household. Still, those are two fewer possible challengers.

 

 

 

Arwyn worries her more than her remaining full cousin Marissa does. Arwyn is clever too, and almost as pretty as Fair Walda. She'd been ill so couldn't come to the tourney, but she is as determined to get out as Alyx is. She would be wild to know what Lady Stark is here to discuss, and Alyx savors that she will know before anyone, because Grandfather sent all the men out. So he's alone with Catelyn Stark, and only Alyx can hear them.

 

 

 

The Starks want to cross, Lady Stark says, obviously to reach what remains of Ser Edmure's host, to relieve the siege of Riverrun. That much is no surprise, and dull as dishwater in any case. The interesting thing is, what toll will Grandfather make them pay?

 

 

 

“Oh, do you?” Grandfather sneers when Lady Stark says what they want. “That's blunt. Why should I let you?”

 

 

 

There's a flare of anger in Lady Stark's blue eyes. “If you were strong enough to climb your own battlements, Lord Frey, you would see that my son has twenty thousand men outside your door.”

 

 

 

“They'll be twenty thousand fresh corpses when Lord Tywin gets here,” Grandfather says, sharp and dismissive. “Don't you try and frighten me, my lady. Your husband's throat was cut in some cell below the Red Keep, your father's sick, might be dying, and Jaime Lannister's got your brother _and_ one of your sons in chains. What do you have that I should fear? That son of yours? I'll match you son for son, and I'll still have eighteen when all of yours are dead.”

 

 

 

How very like Grandfather, to think having so many potential heirs is security. Although, Alyx has to admit that in a way, he might just have a point. After all, if he only had a few sons, then probably one of them would have put poison in his soup by now. She's pretty sure the only reason no one has is because they all know it's going to be a war for inheritance the second he breathes his last. And no one's ready for that yet.

 

 

 

They bicker back and forth, Grandfather declaring that if he had any sense he'd declare for the Lannisters, and Lady Stark wanting to know why. Then Grandfather's off on a rant about Lord Hoster and Lady Arryn and Alyx very nearly falls asleep. If she'd wanted to hear Grandfather on a tirade, well, she could just come to dinner in the hall. Finally, Grandfather says, “You say you want to cross the river?”

 

 

 

“We do.”

 

 

 

“Well, you can't! Not unless I allow it, and why should I? The Tullys and the Starks have never been friends of mine.” He leans back in his chair, arms folded and a smirk on his face.

 

 

 

“You spoke of grandsons you wished to see taken to ward. I will happily take wards of your house. I have two small granddaughters at Winterfell who would benefit from foster sisters,” Lady Stark offers. It's a weak opening bid, but Alyx thinks there's probably a reason for that – and anyway, Grandfather's biggest grudge against the lady's father is that he refused a Frey bride for Ser Edmure. Grandfather is always trying to get rid of the girls.

 

 

 

“Not enough. You can have two of the little ones, Stevron will know which to send, but it's not enough! Not to turn on my own goodkin, and some of my grandsons marching with their Uncle Tywin as we speak.”

 

 

 

Alyx rolls her eyes. As if he cares about any of them, especially Uncle Emmon's half-Lannister children who are barely known to anyone at the Twins, they've been raised entirely as lions thanks to Lady Genna. Lady Stark offers a squiredom for two of the boys – one can serve her son Robb, she says, and one can serve the Starks' ward Theon Greyjoy.

 

 

 

“Two toddling girls and two stripling boys? Hmph. I have plenty of older granddaughters, sweet biddable girls,” Grandfather sneers.

 

 

 

“Robb is married, and Bran is the closest male heir at this time. As my late husband and my son both wed below the Neck, Bran must be betrothed to a Northern girl. He is not available. My youngest son, Rickon, could be betrothed to one of the girls I take to ward, but not Bran.”

 

 

 

That makes sense. Bran must be the one the Lannisters have – that way, if he doesn't survive and the boy Rickon succeeds his brother for lack of a nephew, if his wife is a southron Frey at least she will be one raised at Winterfell, to ease whatever tensions require Bran to wed in the North.

 

 

 

“I want something better than that. Your brother's still a free man.”

 

 

“My brother's hand is not mine to offer. I can suggest that he will owe you a debt for letting us through so we can get him back from the Lannisters, but I will not promise you what is not in my power to give, Lord Frey. You spoke of sweet words that meant nothing; what would an empty promise be if not more of that?”

 

 

 

“Hmph. You speak to him then. And take some of my girls with you.”

 

 

 

“Excuse me?”

 

 

 

“Make them your household,” Grandfather says, waving a hand. “If you get your brother and your father's castle, he'll be living with some of my granddaughters, and I'm sure one will catch his fancy.”

 

 

 

Lady Stark takes a deep breath, and then nods. “Agreed. Will you wish your son to pick them as well?”

 

 

 

Alyx decides that now is a good time to flee, before anyone realizes she's not where she's supposed to be. If she wants to be one of the girls chosen to be Lady Stark's household, then she had best not risk that!

 

 

<><><>

 

 

“It isn't helping, you know,” Leonette says when she sees Sansa out in the hedge maze, Lady at her side. Sansa, curling her fingers in her wolf's ruff, turns to smile thinly at Leonette, who is looking well halfway through her pregnancy, her blue dress clinging to the high curve of her belly. Next to her, Sansa supposes she must look like a ghost in her mourning black, but she doesn't care.

 

 

“What isn't helping?” she asks, and she can hear the renewed northern accent in her words. Leonette sighs, coming forward to take Sansa's hand.

 

 

“The accent, for one,” she says gently. “Your sash and your necklace, for two more.” The sash was a gift from Jon's wife Joy, a pretty thing of white silk embroidered with direwolves in silvery thread, chasing each other across the cloth. It's a Lorathi style, a bit odd with her dress, but it matches her silver and moonstone direwolf pendant. It's all very deliberate, Stark symbols against her mourning – but it's genuine, too.

 

 

Sansa has spent hours in the godswood praying for Father. Willas actually had to come find her the morning after she was told, because she'd fallen asleep in the grass. She recalls that morning, overcast but warm, the only chill the dew against her skin and her grief. Her grief still leaves her feeling chilled, her grief and her growing anger. “I don't care if it's helping, Leonette. Even Willas says his father's decision is an insult.”

 

 

“It is,” Leonette has to admit. It's true that Margaery is wed to Renly Baratheon, and that Loras is their sworn shield. But, technically, important as that connection is, Willas' tie to the Starks through Sansa ought to come first, as he is the heir to Highgarden and the Reach. Even her tie to the Dragonstone Baratheons through Jon matters less, since legally Jon is first and foremost a Dayne, officially not even in line to Winterfell.

 

 

But Loras and Margaery are Mace's favorite children, and so he refuses to stir before he gets word from one of them. He's called the banners, but has no plans to do anything more than be ready before he hears from his youngest children. For Willas, it is yet another sign that his father thinks less of him, and for Sansa...

 

 

For Sansa, it is infuriating. Robb is marching south, her uncle Edmure and her brother Bran are captives, Father is dead and Rickon missing. And then there's the letter from Jon, addressed to her, which had said only to call the banners, that he did not dare trust more to a raven. She knows Allyria and Robb had a similar letter, but what does he know that none of them know? What could be so dangerous it could not be trusted to a letter?

 

 

Is it what got Father killed?

 

 

Sansa knows that she cannot ask, although she would very much like to. If Jon can't trust the answers to ravens, then what is the point of asking for them?

 

 

“Lord Tyrell knows that he owes at least something more than silence to my family, through our marriage. He could, as Willas says we ought, act to bring us together with the Baratheons, who for some reason have _not_ called on my brother and the ties between us, so far as anyone knows.”

 

 

 

“Lord Stannis is a man near-obsessed with legalities,” Leonette says gently. “It is possible that he will find Joffrey's actions lawful.”

 

 

 

“My father was murdered in his cell!”

 

 

 

“No one knows it was the Lannisters. In fact they vehemently deny it.”

 

 

 

“Well they would, wouldn't they? Who else could it be?” Sansa snaps, and Lady growls softly at her side.

 

 

 

“Someone who wants us to think so,” comes Willas' voice. He only managed to come up so quietly because they are in one of the gardens, and the grass muffles the sound of his cane. Garlan is with him, looking tense as he crosses to Leonette, giving her his arm. “Sansa, you know I agree that we should not just be waiting, but your father's murder... I'm sorry, sweetling. It's clumsy, and it only makes things worse for the Lannisters. Which doesn't prevent it from being a Lannister – Cersei, I'd wager, rather than Jaime or Tyrion, Tyrion's too clever and a knife in the dark isn't Jaime Lannister's way, even Aerys was murdered openly – but it could also be someone who wants to be sure there is no way to reconcile the lion and the wolf.”

 

 

“Why would anyone want that?” Leonette asks before Sansa can.

 

 

“My question exactly,” Garlan says. “At least, it was when we were discussing it earlier. It's difficult to say. The Baratheons would benefit if the Lannisters are discredited, and it's just possible that Stannis and Renly considered Ned Stark a threat – but with Jon Dayne among them that just doesn't make sense. There've been rumors about the Targaryen exiles, apparently, but if anyone still supported them surely we'd have heard by now.”

 

 

“Or at least heard they were doing better than being slowly reduced to penury,” Willas agrees, nodding. “That's as far as we've gotten. The Baratheons would benefit under other circumstances, but the personalities involved just don't suit, and a Targaryen loyalist makes no sense. But then, the Lannisters killing your father doesn't either, because he was the only hostage – the only bargaining chip – they had.”

 

 

“Now they have Bran,” Sansa says tightly. “But they didn't when Father died, I understand your point. What of Joffrey? He's half mad, and would have possibly as much reason as any of the Lannisters, but less good sense to go with it.”

 

 

“Damn,” Willas mutters. “I hadn't considered that, he's never stirred himself to do anything except bully those right in front of him before. But it's not impossible.”

 

 

“And it's hardly the point, is it? My father is still _dead_ ,” Sansa says, reaching the end of her ability to be composed about this. “And your father refuses to acknowledge the alliance of our marriage. So what am I to do? Am I my father's daughter, my brother's sister, or your wife? And this is an insult to you, you've said so, so what will you do?”

 

 

Distantly, she knows that Garlan and Leonette are moving off, leaving them alone, as Willas takes her hand, leading her to one of the benches. He keeps hold of her hand as they settle there, running his thumb over her knuckles. “We do nothing for now. Sansa, I am sorry. But all my authority comes from being my father's heir – thanks to this damned leg I have almost no credit in military matters. The trouble is, we don't know what your brother means to do. If Stannis and Renly go to war, they will have a set plan. If it were any man but Stannis, I would say he'd willingly usurp his nephews, Joffrey being mad and Tommen being a child. Likely he'd dress it up by giving Shireen to the Martells in exchange for Myrcella, then marry her to Arthur.”

 

 

It is easier to think of what strategies the Baratheons might pursue than it is to think of her father lying dead, or Robb fighting the Lannisters, Bran locked away. Sansa takes a deep breath and tries to pretend this is just another of their conversations about what a particular lord might do to get some advantage at court. “But Stannis isn't like that. He might depose Joffrey for his madness, but then he would want... what? Regency for Tommen, as his uncle and Robert's brother?” What Renly wants only matters so much, because he will turn his skill set for politics to his brother's goals, in something as important as this. “Unless... what else could he plan, since we know he isn't someone to usurp a throne?”

 

 

“The marriage between Robert and Cersei is valid, so there's no question of the children's legitimacy, but then, why were Stannis and Lord Arryn looking at Robert's bastards? That has to be involved somehow, but I never did make sense of it. I'm sorry, Sansa. I swear to you, as soon as we know what Stannis and Renly will do, then I can make some plan to try and mediate between them and your brother. You should write to Allyria now, ask her to write her sister, you and she can both write to Jon. There's not much we can do at this moment but we can reach out, we can start the process.”

 

 

“I will not stop wearing my colors,” Sansa says flatly. “I want everyone to remember that I am a Stark, and that you and I are tied to my brother. I want no one to forget the kinship, so that it cannot be ignored. I don't trust your father, Willas. Not in this, not now after what he's done so far.” Lord Mace has never been anything but kind, but she thinks of Lady's discomfort with him – and with Loras – now. She wonders if it meant something. “I am the North come to the Reach now, I must be that in a way I never was.”

 

 

Before, she wasn't the North so much as a symbol of the new order, the alliance that had brought the Baratheon line to the throne, wed to one of the kingdoms that had stayed loyal to Targaryen. She and Arya and Princess Myrcella are all symbols in the same way – this is one of the many things Sansa has come to understand in her lessons with Lady Olenna, or her talks with Willas. But now she is the North as much as any Stark, because that is the only way open for her to help Robb. So she will wear wolves, will mix white and grey with her mourning black.

 

 

Willas is nodding. “You're right.”

 

 

 

And so that is what Sansa does, as the lords of the Reach come and she stands with Lady Alerie and Leonette to greet them, as she plays the charming young hostess. But she does it with the direwolf on her clothes, she does it with Lady at her side. It infuriates Lord Mace, but Willas clearly agrees with her daring, and he does not seem to be the only one. Lord Rowan nods with approval, though he looks unsettled by Lady too. Leonette's cousin Ser Jon Fossoway, who likes hounds almost as much as Willas, is the only one brave enough to approach, his hand held out for Lady to sniff.

 

 

 

Lady is even with her when it's just her and Willas in his solar, which is where they are when Willas receives a letter from his uncle Baelor Hightower. “It must be about when they'll be arriving,” Willas says. Sansa, in the middle of letters to Allyria and Jon, barely even acknowledges this. She knows, because Willas has told her, that his Hightower kin think little of his father, and prefer to deal more directly with Willas.

 

 

Sansa continues with her letters, expecting that Willas will soon tell her when they can expect Hightower levies. When he's silent, she looks up, only to see her husband looking deeply alarmed. “Willas? What is it?” He says nothing, only pushes the letter across the desk. And when Sansa reads it, she knows _exactly_ what has gone so very wrong.

 

 

<><><>

 

 

The camp of survivors is a grim one, and Tion knows himself to be one of the most grim members of it. For one thing, most of his supposed comrades eye him with blatant suspicion. He understands why – he is a Frey by name, a Lannister by blood. These riverlords do not approve of either one, especially not when fighting Lannisters, while the Freys refuse to come and join the rest of their fellows, instead holing up in the Twins to wait and see what happens.

 

 

 

But really. If Tion were going to defect back to the Rock, wouldn't he have done it during the battle where so many were beaten, and many others taken captive, including Ser Edmure and his nephew Bran Stark? That would have been the wise moment to do it, when he could have told cousin Jaime that he'd had only two choices when the men of Atranta marched – join them or be shut up in a tower cell. Jaime would have believed it, and in time Uncle Tywin would have forgiven it since he would have promptly returned to proper allegiance as soon as possible.

 

 

 

So why hadn't he done it? In some ways, Tion isn't even certain of that himself. Part of it is the certainty that had he done so, any plans to claim the Twins when his grandfather dies will become hopeless daydreams. Admittedly, he could have hoped that his uncle Tywin would give him the Twins after conquering the Riverlands – but he'd never hold the castles if he got them that way, he suspects. The war might net him something along with the rest of the Lannisters, but as he and Tyrek have often lamented, there's no guarantee of that. Not for the orphaned son of a third son disliked by his eldest brother, not for the youngest son of the lord's sister. Tyrek can go find Joy, attach himself to her and Jon Dayne, or run off with those bastard-born half-brothers of his and whatever schemes they've cooked up. But while Tion's prospects are technically _better_ if he can pull them off, they're also less flexible.

 

 

 

He wants the Twins even ahead of those higher in the succession for it. A wife from amongst those who stand higher is a start. Allies among the lords who will be his peers is just as important, and yet another reason his mother sent him to Cerenna in the first place. Another reason she'd encouraged Cerenna to pursue her romance with Ronald, in fact. Cerenna's always liked Tion, and she's no fool; she has some inkling of the plans afoot and already said she was happy to help. They like the idea of carving out spaces for new lions in the Riverlands, even if the lion sigil never appears on their heirs' banners.

 

 

 

Cerenna had been the one to say it, in fact. “If you don't fight with us, then all your plans are doomed. Why do you think your mother insisted it be now that you come?”

 

 

 

Why indeed. She's put little Tywin with Tyrek, the most likely of their kin to defect. He is in the Riverlands at this time at her direction, and all this was decided after the Hand's Tourney. He doesn't know what's going on here, but he does know his mother. Something is happening, and so he comforts himself with the hope that she wanted him to be clear of the family, wanted him in a situation where he could be independent if he needed to be.

 

 

 

It doesn't really make things easier, unfortunately.

 

 

 

“You all right, Tion?” Ronald asks, dropping down beside him. “I know it can't be easy, facing your kin. Though from how Cerenna talks about some of her family...”

 

 

 

“We don't sound much like a family, do we? That's Uncle Tywin's lot, mostly, and of course the girl cousins in Cersei's household. With the boys it was always a little different. We ran about and trained and studied together, and some of the girls were with us too. Even Joy, our bastard cousin. But... What could I do? I'm with Cerenna, I'm with you.”

 

 

 

“And you stayed when you could have run. It means a great deal, Tion. You know I – I'll be Lord Vance, one day. If it comes to it, you have a place at Atranta. I promise you that much. You saved my life in the retreat, and I don't forget it.”

 

 

 

Ronald's horse had been struck, and he'd slid from the saddle. He'd have been trampled if Tion hadn't reached down a hand to help him, enough that Ronald could heave himself onto Tion's horse. Strange, how he'd barely thought about it since it happened, too consumed with what all this meant for his ties to his kin. “Thank you. It's good to know.”

 

 

 

Ronald is about to say something else when Marq Piper and his outriders return – with another rider. Tion doesn't recognize him, exactly, but he looks like nothing so much as an older, harder version of Edmure Tully, so he doesn't really need Ronald's mutter of “How in seven hells did the Blackfish get here?” to know who he's looking at.

 

 

 

Nor does he need much to guess that, if Brynden Tully is here, he isn't here alone. Either Lady Arryn brought the Vale knights down to help her family, or he's with Lady Stark now, but either way, they have allies. And there will be another battle, against his family.

 

 

 

But then, he's made his choice already, hasn't he?

 

 

<><><>

 

 

It is quiet in the Maidenvault. Quiet and skittish, because none of them know what is happening. Elinor keeps her head bent over her embroidery, and Megga fumbles with a lap loom despite Septa Eglantine's frowns. When Rohanne asks why she's doing it, Megga smiles tremulously. “Alla always liked it so much, I thought maybe it would be distracting. She's the lucky one, off with the princess and her friend Lady Arya with them. I thought I might get her luck.”

 

 

 

She gives it up soon enough of course, too used to obeying the septa and not being given to doing things she finds difficult. Rohanne doesn't know what to say to her, or to any of the other members of Elinor's household. Some of them whisper that she's about to be repudiated, because Lord Tyrell and his sons have not come to pledge allegiance as commanded – or at least sent word that they will, given the distance. Robb Stark is already marching, and Lord Willas' wife is a Stark, which is another mark against them. But most who think this speak of Lady Margaery and Ser Loras, who of course are with Renly Baratheon.

 

 

 

The word is that the Baratheon brothers mean to challenge the Crown, but whether they mean to depose Joffrey or simply remove the Lannisters around him, no one is sure. But they say Dragonstone is closed up, that no ship has been allowed to leave its harbor for months. They say the Starks are marching south, they say the Tyrells plot in Highgarden and even with the marriage alliance no one knows what Dorne is doing. After all, while the elder Martell prince is betrothed to the princess, his brother is to marry the younger Stark, and Princess Arianne's sudden elopement has startled her entire region. Then there are the Daynes, and their ties...

 

 

 

They say all these things at court and Rohanne hears because she is only a little cat, and not a golden lioness of Lannister. Her holdings that she loves so much are small, and they think she too is small. She hears a great many things because she is ignored. She also sees a lot, and she can't help but notice how, suddenly, the queen of all people is watching her. _Her_. Why? There seems to be no reason for it, nothing that Rohanne can think of. Perhaps she is being considered as a match for one of the landless Lannister cousins? If so she hopes it's one of Ser Kevan's twins or Ser Tyrek, who are near her own age and seem pleasant enough. The queen could be measuring her potential worth as a bride for one of her kin, especially given all the alliances that may come against them.

 

 

 

Well, if that is so, then Rohanne will not disappoint. Feeling that cold regard from eyes the same color as her own, Rohanne's spine stiffens and she speaks to her fellow courtiers with a careless confidence she does not entirely feel. Oh yes, Lady Elinor is quite well, looking forward to her wedding. Give the smallfolk and nobility of the capital a great show, something to bolster their confidence in the new regime, especially after the coronation had to be done so quickly.

 

 

 

Rohanne watches Queen Cersei right back, sees her whisper into her son's ear and wonders if anything will grant confidence in _this_ regime.

 

 

 

When things change, they change abruptly. Ser Arys Oakheart is the one sent to tell them, a kindness perhaps. “You are all to leave the Maidenvault,” he says to them, his white brother Ser Preston Greenfield stone-faced at the door. Elinor sets aside her sewing and stands, chin lifted in a good imitation of Lady Margaery.

 

 

 

“Why is that, Ser Arys?” she asks, looking perfectly composed. Rohanne is impressed.

 

 

 

“Her Majesty the Queen Regent has commanded it,” Ser Arys says, and if he looks a little uncomfortable, well, the situation is already worrying, isn't it? She only gets even more worried when Ser Preston Greenfield stops her at the door. “Pick one girl, and the two of you remain here, Lady Osgrey.”

 

 

 

What? Why? Still, she can only look at Aly. “Aly, would you...” Aly, looking as uncertain as Rohanne feels, comes to stand with her. Several of the other girls shoot them nasty looks, Megga the most vicious of them all. Elinor, though, just gives Rohanne one long, searching look. One that has more sympathy and pity than it does betrayal.

 

 

 

Rohanne is left alone with Aly in the empty Maidenvault. And her first thought, watching the door close, is to wonder if this is how Daena, Rhaena, and Elaena Targaryen felt when King Baelor locked them away. “Well, if we are to remain here, we can't just stand around unoccupied,” she says finally. Aly makes a face.

 

 

 

“Why are we to remain here? More accurately, why are you to remain here?” she asks, and Rohanne finds it hard to meet her friend's dark eyes. Because she thinks she might know. Some of it is easy enough to work out. The Tyrells won't side with the Lannisters, not with Margaery and Loras both tied to Renly Baratheon, with Willas Tyrell wed to a Stark. At best they'll decide to remain neutral, and that is quite unlikely.

 

 

 

Her name is Osgrey, she has been Lady Osgrey since she was four years old, and Rohanne does identify with her house. But she has been raised by her Florent mother and uncles, grown up listening to their bitter tales of the Baratheons, how they'd joined the Rebellion to win Highgarden and were left with nothing. All she wants to do is pace and think, but she forces herself to settle with embroidery, as Aly tries to do.

 

 

 

They are left to their own devices for two days. Servants bring their meals, but there are guards outside the doors. Clearly, while they are meant to be comfortably held, they are indeed meant to be held. Rohanne isn't sure why; if they are hostages, as Elinor and the others likely are, then why separate them?

 

 

 

“Perhaps they don't want anyone to know that we've been rearranged, until...” Aly suggests when Rohanne voices this aloud. “Well, until they've made official whatever it is that they intend.”

 

 

 

“I wish they'd go ahead and do it. I'm fairly sure I know already, more or less – my family has reason to support a faction the Tyrells aren't supporting, and I'll wager my hand has been promised to a Lannister. But I'd like to know exactly what the circumstances will be.”

 

 

 

“They've kept you in the Maidenvault, that was aired out especially for Elinor. The future wife of the crown prince, now king. What do you _think_ the circumstances are going to be, exactly?”

 

 

 

“I'm trying not to think about it. Would _you_ want to contemplate marrying Joffrey?” There. She's said it. What they've both been thinking, what Megga and Elinor had clearly suspected. There's nothing they can point to with any certainty, about Joffrey. But the way Elinor had always been so very careful of his mood, things whispered in court about some of the things he's done over the years – there'd been an unsettling tale about a cat – it had made them all wary of the prince.

 

 

 

She doesn't want to be the one who replaces Elinor. But on the third day alone in the Maidenvault with Aly, the door opens suddenly, and Rohanne's mother, Selyse Florent Osgrey, walks into the room. Rohanne rises to meet her, giving her mother the formal kiss on both cheeks, receiving the same in return. Things have never been easy between them – for one thing, as a Lady in her own right, Rohanne has technically outranked her mother since she was two years old – but Rohanne does love her mother. She's simply inherited her mother's struggle to express it.

 

 

 

“Daughter. I have come with Lady Genna Lannister, and my father, brother, uncle and several cousins. We are supporting King Joffrey, in exchange for certain conditions.” Rohanne goes very still, her stomach knotting and heart pounding. _Oh no, gods no._ But there is no stopping this, not now. Her mother continues, “The most important ones are that the Florents will take Highgarden from the usurping Tyrells, and _you_ will be Queen.”

 

 

 

The room blurs and spins around her, and then goes black.

 


	13. Interlude 6: The Three-Eyed Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran, lost in dreams.

When Bran wakes up the first time, it's only for a brief moment, his head spinning as he shivers with fever. There is a maester, not Maester Luwin or Maester Wylis, and he spoons something bitter into Bran's mouth. “Who...?” Bran manages to say, before he tumbles back into the dark.

 

 

He is Summer, racing through the woods, following a wagon surrounded by Lannister flags. _No! They'll kill you!_ Bran thinks, understanding that when he thinks that his boy is in that wooden box, he is Summer thinking of himself. The wagon belongs to the Lannisters and they will kill Summer if they find him. _No! Go back and help like you were!_ He'd sent his wolf out to trouble the Lannisters by night while he was in camp with Uncle Edmure, and if Summer can keep doing that it's a good thing. It's the only way they can help now, he knows.

 

 

He knows, then, what has happened to him. The Lannisters have him, like they had kept Father until they killed him. It would scare him more, but his head is spinning with fever again, and he lets himself fall into the dark again. He falls and falls for what seems like forever, till a voice whispers **Fly**.

 

 

_I can't fly._

 

 

**How do you know? Have you ever tried?** There is a raven hovering before Bran's face, a three-eyed raven, and the voice is coming from it, though its beak does not move.

 

 

There are other voices, beyond the endless dark Bran is falling through. Summer is gone, obedient to Bran's order – or no, not gone, but not close. Never gone, he thinks, they are forever connected, like Old Nan's tales. It should scare him, because in the stories skinchangers are almost always evil, but nothing is scarier than this darkness. And all of his brothers and sisters have wolves too, he knows they are good and so is he.

 

 

Wolves...

 

 

He is Summer again, looking for pack. His sisters, one in a rose garden and one under a rose tree, his brothers on an island and in a camp and –

 

 

Rickon and Shaggy are on a ship? How did they get on a ship? And how can Bran see all of this, what is happening?

 

 

**You will see nothing with your eyes open, and everything with them closed,** says the raven, back again. **Say, got any corn?**

 

 

_No. I'm... sorry, but no. I don't even have pockets to carry it in. I'm not even sure I have hands, anymore._

 

 

**You have hands. And eyes. They won't work the same as they did, though. That's why you need another.**

 

 

The bird pecks at his forehead and Bran yelps with pain. _Stop that!_

 

 

**I can't. You have to fly, and you have to see. Winter is coming, and you are needed.**

 

 

_I don't understand._

 

 

**You will.**

 

 

The other voices are louder now, Bran can make them out, not just mumbles. “- the only captive we have now, with Stark dead. My niece botched something, I just don't know what. But we can't risk another mistake. Tywin says the boy goes to the Rock. Make sure he lives to get there.”

 

 

“Yes, Ser Kevan. The uncle?”

 

 

“Edmure Tully is more use with Jaime's camp, they can use him to force Riverrun to surrender. We need the boy to deal with Robb Stark, preferably before Stannis and Renly can muster to do whatever they may be planning to do.”

 

 

Bran can see the Rock, it looks almost like a huge stone lion. He can see Highgarden, and Sansa kneeling in the godswood there. He can see Jon pacing on Dragonstone, Ghost at his side, Robb standing before ugly twin towers across a river, looking worried with Mother at his side. He can see Arya and her friend Alla sitting under a lemon tree...

 

 

There is a bald girl curled in ash, something moving around her that he cannot see, there is Jon's cousin Shiera, a bastard Dayne, lying in a pool of water with her eyes wide open as if looking for something, there is a woman, a red woman who sees her in flame –

 

 

They see _him_ , even as he sees them.

 

 

And then ice fills his vision, ice and snow and terrible glowing blue eyes, and he knows he is not the only one who sees them, but the other seers' faces go by so fast that it's all a blur.

 

 

**Do you understand now?** The raven demands.

 

 

_I don't know_ , Bran tells him, and opens his eyes to more darkness.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Aegon Targaryen = Jon Storm
> 
> Daemon d'Altari = Damon d'Altari
> 
> Daeron d'Altari = Daron d'Altari
> 
> The twins' names are a callback, of course, to Daeron II and Daemon Blackfyre, both of whom the d'Altaris claims descent from. The reason for them changing their first names was to avoid Viserys or Daenerys asking why a random pair of Lorathi have Targaryen names.


End file.
